


Isolated Thunderstorms and Scattered Showers

by triggerlil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies, Brief Mention of Coma, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter has Anxiety, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Invisibility Cloak (Harry Potter), M/M, Panic Attacks, Pining, Questioning Sexuality, Slow Burn, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25035604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triggerlil/pseuds/triggerlil
Summary: Post-war, Harry needs space. Everything is too much all at once, and time and time again, he finds himself pulling the invisibility cloak over his head, just for a bit of peace.Returning for eighth year is hard, especially when you're considered a war hero, and your name is Harry James Potter. It's just that things go a little wonky when Harry starts following Malfoy, and finds that he can't (or doesn't want to) stop.
Relationships: Anthony Goldstein/Wayne Hopkins, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas, past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley - Relationship
Comments: 61
Kudos: 346
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	Isolated Thunderstorms and Scattered Showers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeWitty1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeWitty1/gifts).



> **Inspired by:** [Iris - The Goo Goo Dolls.](https://open.spotify.com/track/6Qyc6fS4DsZjB2mRW9DsQs?si=CTXBCn7dRl2CoeKziuluwA)
> 
> **A/N:**  
>  So many people to thank for this fic! 
> 
> To H: this fic wouldn't be what it is without you. 
> 
> M, BR, MJ, and P, you guys are wonderful lifesavers. 
> 
> And R, you beautiful human, thanks for always being there to talk and cheer each other on.
> 
> To DeWitty, I hope you love this fic! I strayed a bit from your original prompt, but I tried to keep in mind the lyrics and tone of the song <3

When Harry had lived at the Dursleys, he had always been invisible, fading into the flowery wallpaper, blending into the brown wood floors. They only noticed him when they needed him—Dudley and his fists, Uncle Vernon purple with rage, Aunt Petunia shrieking about how he wouldn’t get dinner—it made him wish the earth would swallow him whole. 

After the war, Harry found he couldn’t go back to Grimmauld Place, but at the same time, the Burrow was too crowded. Their collective grief was both placated and accentuated by numbers. Molly clambered to keep them well fed, to mother them all, but it was smothering more than anything. Harry liked to sit with Hermione and Ron, watch the sunrise quietly, before even Molly was awake, but at the thought of interacting with anyone else, he would wrap his invisibility cloak around him like an anchor, a shield, something that could let him exist as a forgotten entity. There was no pity, no hushed awe. Harry was himself as he felt he was meant to be: alone, barely there, nothing. 

-x-

Harry sat on the train to Hogwarts, felt it run smoothly beneath him, and wished he was invisible. The scenery passed by in blurring images as his friends guessed at what the living situations for eighth years would be like. He shouldn’t have felt like this, in a compartment with Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Luna, the few people who actually understood exactly what this type of grief was like. 

Everything was too loud, too much. The world was moving too fast. He didn’t understand how they were in eighth year, but he also didn’t understand how he was still so young. Loose thoughts rattled around in his head, and every one that stuck out to him seemed like a strike to the face. Hermione’s voice was too shrill, Neville’s laugh too persistent, and the lights in their compartment too bright. He felt an inexplicable need to get away, to be a part of the rushing landscape. None of the air around him seemed to be finding its way into his lungs. 

“I’m just going—” he started. He stood up quickly, looking around at their quizzical faces. “I’m just going.” 

“Okay, mate,” Ron said, his look too filled with understanding, and Harry brushed passed him. 

Harry walked a few steps from their compartment and pulled his invisibility cloak from his back pocket. When he was standing in front of the train doors, and was sure no one was looking, he slipped it over his head. 

He took in a shaky breath, and then another. He fingered the worn fabric, and the knowledge that this had been his father’s, that he had worn it perhaps in the same way, in the same place, calmed him.

Harry put one foot in front of the other, and then he was walking down the corridor, letting the sway of the train carry him along. He peered into people’s compartments, basking in the mundane. A first year girl opening a chocolate frog, two students whispering to each other, Ravenclaw’s Head Boy stroking a very large black cat. 

He absorbed the simplicity, the contentment, the subtle art of being human. He peered into individual lives, and revelled in the fact that not one person peered back. 

Until he got to the back of the train, and there, sitting in the corner, was Malfoy. 

He was staring out the window, a frown pinching his brow, Parkinson and Zabini sitting across from him. The two were talking in low voices, but instead of trying to decipher their conversation, Harry found his gaze lingering on Malfoy. The sun glinting off his white-blond hair, the hollow of his cheeks, his rumpled collar, and the curve of his jaw. Harry also noticed, however, that Malfoy’s knuckles were white, his robes bunched into his fists. The longer Harry stood and stared, the more restless Malfoy seemed to get, until the boy stood up, and with trembling hands, excused himself from the compartment. 

It took a moment too long for Harry’s brain to catch up with the events unfolding, and as he stepped out of the way, he was sure Malfoy felt the ghost of the invisibility cloak brushing along him, the tremor of Harry’s breathing, the sound of his heavy footfalls. Malfoy stopped with his hand on the compartment door, so close Harry could see each of Malfoy’s eyelashes, the blond tips fading down to a brown, the dark ring around his irises, and the varying shades of grey streaking through to his dilated pupils. Harry held his breath, sure that Malfoy’s hand would shoot out and find him, but Malfoy simply turned on his heel, and walked away. 

-x- 

“Now, eighth years, follow me,” Headmistress McGonagall called, leading the way out of the Great Hall. 

There weren’t many of them. Harry tried to count how many had returned, but flanked by Ron and Hermione, with Dean and Parvati in front, he couldn’t be sure. Turning around, he noticed Malfoy standing apart from the crowd with Parkinson and Zabini, who seemed wary of the whole affair. Harry turned away before Malfoy could meet his gaze, but he felt a chill sweep across his neck, and wondered if he’d been found out anyway. 

The returning years had all been damaged thanks to the war. Most of Dumbledore’s Army had dropped out by seventh year, so none of them had learned much, but neither had any of the other years under the Carrows. 

The answer, according to the board of education, was to let people pass to the next year as planned, but bring on the eighth years in addition to basic seventh year classes, or to join advanced discussion groups, with more self-study. This would be the case every year, for seven years, until those who had attended Hogwarts during the war had all graduated. Maybe that was why it seemed someone had shelled out for a fancy new common room, as they climbed the stairs to the third floor, McGonagall leading them up to the West Wing. A set of ebony doors were nestled under a simple stone arch, two torches lit on either side. A curled, antique doorknob stood out, runes carved into the tarnished gold surface. 

McGonnagal waved a student forward: Hannah.

“It is designed to recognize your magical signatures. No one but an eighth year or Hogwarts staff member will be able to open this door.”

She nodded, and Hannah grasped the metal. The runes glowed a subtle orange, and Hannah gasped, but pushed down, swinging the door open. 

“Now, if you’ll all follow me,” McGonagall said, and swept into the room.

Hermione hung back as much as possible as they walked through, watching as the runes faded back to gold. 

“Do you think they’d tell me how that works?” she asked, eyes wide. 

However, her question was forgotten as they were greeted by a wide corridor. On the right, mahogany desks looked out over the forbidden forest through floor to ceiling windows. On the left, a large bookshelf stretched the expanse of the wall, climbing up two floors. As they walked, the students realised that there were breaks in between the rows of books, narrow stairs climbing up to a mezzanine where plush chairs and pillows were nestled between the shelves. 

“Is this it?” Ron whispered judgmentally, but he had spoken too soon. There was a collective gasp as they all filed into the common room. It was extravagant, to say the least.

Two sets of stairs with silver rails were parallel to each other, leaving a wide open space between for seating areas and little desks. At the end of the room, a large fireplace stood watch, plush armchairs and sofas in varying shades of warm brown circled around it. 

On the left wall next to the fireplace, there was a large cabinet with a kettle and a collection of mugs. Padma rushed over, flinging it open to find a wall of tea; from black and white, to green and chai, every subcategory imaginable. Tea to sip while reading by the fireplace, while watching the rain streaking down the windows, and while staving off the nightmares before bed. 

The common room was a collection of neutrals, yet their houses had not been forgotten. Some of it was subtle: the curled gold feet of the walnut and coffee coloured chairs, the silver on the stairs and windows, the bronze accents of the fireplace and tea cabinet. But there were also maroon ruffled pillows, dark green throw rugs, soft royal blue blankets, and looking up, bright yellow silk drapes hanging from bannisters above.

Yet it was the ceiling that rendered them all speechless upon entering. Looking up, the second floor was open in the center, and a globe surrounded by slowly rotating metal rings was suspended in the air. The rings were a similar gold to the door handles, and from the floor, the runes engraved in their surface were illegible. They slowly pulsed a light green, and every time the magic faded, they appeared simply as black fissures on the shining surface. The globe itself was a clear crystal, and it was as if someone had bottled a storm inside. Thunder and dark clouds broiled within, flashes of lightning bursting through sporadically.

McGonagall’s eyes were twinkling, and she clasped her hands, standing in front of them. “This, students, is a weather globe. The state of affairs within it will reflect how all of you are getting along. A sort of reverse house cup, if you will.” 

Ron blanched. “A reverse house cup?”

“Yes, Mr. Weasley. Logistically, we cannot have eighth year actions contribute to house points, just like you cannot play Quidditch, but thanks to a generous donation by an outside party, we were able to engineer this globe for the sake of inter-house unity. The more your relations improve, the clearer the globe will get." She smiled mischievously, something alarmingly feline. "The reward, if you're able to maintain sunny skies, will be the friends you made along the way. Any questions?” 

Ron glowered at the reminder that they wouldn't be able to participate in Quidditch that year, as Parvati nudged Neville with her elbow. “I heard from Terry who heard from Michael, who apparently is friends with Daphne now, that the Malfoys were the donors,” she whispered enigmatically. 

“Not a chance, mate,” Dean said, leaning in to give his two sickles, as Neville looked around sheepishly. Harry could see Terry standing with the other Ravenclaws, but it seemed Michael and Daphne had not returned. 

“What if we’re just in a fight with one of our friends?” Sue Li, one of the Ravens, asked. 

“Not to worry, all petty inter-house squabbles will be taken into consideration, and for the most part, dismissed. The cup is only interested in how your year feels as a whole. Now, the common room...” 

As McGonagall explained each area, Harry felt a flutter in his chest. He missed the Gryffindor common room, but this felt like a place they could live in, spend the rest of their one normal year enjoying. It wasn’t what any of them once had, but perhaps it was time for a change. 

“Every day, each decoration will cycle through your house colours,” she said. “A pop of variety, if you will. If you’ll follow me.”

She led the way up one of the spiraling staircases, and they found themselves on the mezzanine that circled the second floor, ebony doors going all the way around. 

“Your dormitories,” McGonagall began, “will not be separated into girls’ and boys’ wings, as the faculty and I agree that you’re all well above that. However, we are putting trust in you all to handle this change responsibly.” 

The students crowded around the bannister, peering into the weather globe. The storm had died down, and was now just a light rainfall, hitting the bottom of the sphere, only to fall back up to the top. Perhaps due to their shared awe. 

“This is some serious Arithmancy and Ancient Runes,” Hermione murmured, leaning forward to get a closer look. Ron clutched at the hem of her jumper nervously. “I don’t think any of the staff here would have been able to install this.”

“You reckon they bought it?” Ron asked, now peering at the globe with renewed interest. 

“I don’t see how else they’d have gotten it,” Hermione replied. “This isn’t just transfiguration to create new chairs and pillows. This would require in depth research of atmospheric charms and containment runes.” 

Harry wondered idly at the conversation, but found his senses drawn to other things. He clutched at the bannister, peering into the common room below. The yellow silk caught on his old broom-handling calluses and his legs went funny. Still, he felt a sort of comfort in the vertigo. To think he could look down and see Hermione drinking tea by the fire, or Ron playing chess by the window, felt solid and real. He could picture the future, in a way he hadn’t been able to before, feel it at the tips of his fingers, sun warmed silk and the pattering of rain.

“Now, there are two unisex bathrooms,” she motioned at two opposite ends of the catwalk. “And if you’ll look at the names engraved on each door, you will find where your belongings have all been deposited. I am sure you are all tired after the feast, so I will leave you for now. Schedules will be handed out tomorrow, and we will discuss the rules of your term. Good night students.” She nodded, and then turned swiftly, disappearing down the silver stairs. 

Hermione found her room quickly. She was sharing it with Hannah, Sue, and Parvati. Harry and Ron had to walk around to the opposite staircase, and there they stood side by side at two adjacent doors.

 _Anthony Goldstein_ _  
_ _Dean Thomas_ _  
_ _Harry Potter_ _  
_ _Wayne Hopkins_

 _Blaise Zabini_ _  
_ _Draco Malfoy_ _  
_ _Neville Longbottom_ _  
_ _Ronald Weasley_  
  
Each freckle on Ron’s pallid face stood out like a pinprick.

“They’re separating us?” he asked redundantly, voice high. 

“Looks like it.”

“And I’m rooming with the—” He could barely get the word out, “I’m rooming with the _Slytherins_.” 

“We don’t bite,” Zabini’s smooth voice said behind them, and Ron nearly yelped, stepping out of the way so Zabini and Malfoy could get through. The door handle glowed under Zabini’s touch, and as they entered the room, Malfoy caught Harry’s eyes, a small scowl etched into his face. 

“What am I going to do?” Ron moaned as Dean came up behind Harry, clapping him on the back. 

“I’m sure you’ll survive, Ron,” Dean said. “And you’ve got Neville.” 

“I’ll pull the sword of Gryffindor on them if they try anything.” Neville grinned. 

With one last forlorn look over his shoulder at Harry, Ron stepped into his new dormitory. 

“After you,” Dean said, motioning Harry through the now open door. 

“Why, thank you.” 

Inside their dorm, four-poster beds were done up in their individual house colours, and looked much the same as in their old dormitories. There were four beds: two red and gold, two bronze and blue. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tapestries covered the walls. 

Harry and Dean began to unpack, exchanging pleasantries with Anthony and Wayne once they arrived. Anthony was tall, with curly blond hair, and a face that made him look eternally judgemental. Wayne was on the shorter side, with dark brown skin and a clean fade, sporting an impish smile and playful dimples. The atmosphere in their dorm was carefree, and everyone was friendly enough as they talked about their summers and nothing in particular. Harry learned that the reason Seamus wasn’t returning was because he was studying pyrotechnics in Brazil. Dean put up a photo of Seamus waving, wearing sunglasses and an open hawaiin shirt, right next to his classic football poster.

Harry glanced at Anthony and Wayne, who had similarly decorated bedsides. 

“What’s that poster, Anthony?” Harry asked. 

“A portrait of fluid dynamics.” 

Dean looked up from where he’d been staring dreamily at his photo of Seamus. “Fluid what?” 

“It’s a subdiscipline of fluid mechanics,” Anthony sniffed. “My mum’s a physicist.” 

“Then what’s your poster?” Harry asked Wayne, sharing a bemused look with Dean. 

“This one is a scientific illustration of a fossil study my dad did.” He placed a finger on the poster, tracing down the stippled greys. “It’s the skull of a megalosaurus.”

“That’s really cool,” Harry said. Truthfully, it was so detailed that it was hard not to be impressed. 

Wayne beamed. “It is! It’s a British dinosaur, and it was the first dinosaur to ever be discovered!” 

“That’s actually neat,” Dean commented. “I didn’t know you guys liked Muggle science.”

“I suppose there’s a lot we don’t know about each other,” Anthony said, his eyes comically wide, as if he was only just realising that being segregated by houses their whole lives, they had been cut off from potentially meaningful relationships. Funny, that. 

“Don’t get me started on paleontology, or I literally might not be able to stop,” Wayne laughed, and then because it felt good, they all laughed together.

No one asked why Harry didn’t have any posters, why the only personalized item he had was a photo of his parents. But when he tried to think of a hobby or passion to decorate the walls above his bed, all that came up were snatched moments of Quidditch stolen from fear, an enjoyment of Defense Against the Dark Arts stifled by war, and no love for anything from his life as a Muggle. 

The laughter trailed off as everyone changed into their pyjamas. Harry wandered out of the dorm room and took a moment to stand at the bannister, staring up into the weather globe, the earlier storm having returned. 

He had no idea how late it was, but the torches in between their dorms had burned down to small dots. The green light of the globes’ runes washed the whole area with an ethereal glow, and as he turned to knock on Ron’s door, Malfoy stepped out. 

The glow on his pale face accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and made his hair glint metallically. Harry was suddenly thrown back to second year, into the green lights of the Slytherin common room. They stared at each other, and Harry felt sure Malfoy was going to accuse him of using the invisibility cloak, but besides a slight crease in Malfoy’s brow, he did nothing of the sort. He turned and stalked down the staircase. Harry leaned over the bannister, watching Malfoy pass through the seating directly below. He headed over to the tea corner, pulling out his wand. It was the wand that Harry had returned that summer when he testified at the Wizengamot and the Malfoy name had been cleared. 

_Magical probation of a Hogwarts student: the offender in question may only cast on school grounds, must receive an A or above in all classes, and must not receive any more than four detentions during his time as eighth year._

Malfoy levitated the kettle gracefully, filled it with water, and put it to boil, opening the cabinet and trailing a hand over the colourful tins of tea. Just as Harry thought he wouldn’t be able to lean any farther without falling, Malfoy’s gaze snapped up, his eyes meeting Harry’s. Even from such a distance, even in the dark, Harry could make out the unmistakable glare marring Malfoy’s pointed features. He retreated from the bannister, and instead of knocking on Ron’s door as he had intended, simply went back into his own dormitory. He was probably with Hermione anyway. 

Anthony and Wayne were sitting on the floor talking, but Dean had his curtains pulled tight, so Harry climbed into his own bed. He listened to the Ravenclaws’ whispers, letting the words phase in and out of coherence, until he finally drew his curtains around himself, and fell into a fitful sleep. 

Throughout the night, invisible weights pressing down on his chest forced him into waking, and had him sitting up, gulping down air like a man starved. When Anthony’s wand alarm finally woke them all up at nine in the morning, Harry felt groggy and disoriented, like he’d just written all of his N.E.W.T.S in one fell swoop. Pulling back his curtains, he fumbled for his glasses, squinting at the sunshine glaring through their dormitory windows. 

“I could have slept longer,” Dean complained, poking his head out of his curtain to check the watch he kept on his dresser. 

Anthony was already standing at the door in trousers and a navy blue cardigan. His hands were on his hips, and he was clicking his tongue, shaking his head as if he were Mrs. Weasley. 

“It’s important to start the day with clear intentions,” he said. “Which is why Wayne and I are going for an invigorating morning stroll.” 

Wayne pulled a jumper over his head, smiling at Dean and Harry sheepishly, as he left with Anthony. For a moment, neither Gryffindor spoke, until Dean broke the silence. 

“Is that what they’re calling snogging these days?” 

The look on Dean’s face was so serious that Harry couldn’t help laughing. It felt nice to acknowledge two blokes out in the open like that. Everyone essentially knew that Seamus and Dean were an item, but they had never talked about it, never said “this is fine, you’re fine, we accept you.” Harry had sometimes wondered what they would think if he was suddenly dating a bloke. Not that he liked anyone right then, or had really liked a bloke in the past—well, he had thought Cedric was rather fit, and maybe Krum, but he hadn’t liked them. Not like he’d liked Ginny. Though that was a bit of a poor example, considering they had broken up over the summer. It was amicable and all; they had both agreed they just weren’t well matched. 

Harry shook his head, earning a strange look from Dean, as they shimmied into their clothes and headed out onto the landing. 

The storm inside the globe had picked up with renewed force, and the rings circled it slowly, thunder rumbling within. 

“Suppose the other dorms aren’t doing too well,” Harry mused as they made their way down the many silver stairs and into the common room. 

Hermione and Ron were already sitting on a sofa by the fire. A book was open in Hermione’s lap, and Ron was dozing on her shoulder. 

As Harry walked over, she smiled tiredly at him. 

“The Slytherins kept him awake,” she said quietly.

“What did they do?”

“Oh, nothing,” she yawned. “That was the whole problem, he was worried they would.” 

“I had to be alert,” Ron mumbled, burrowing into the space between the sofa and Hermione’s lower back. He made quite a sight, his long legs dangling onto the floor, his head all but invisible behind Hermione’s jumper and bushy hair. 

“Come on, Ron, let’s get breakfast,” she laughed, pinching the skin above his trousers where his Weasley jumper had ridden up. Harry wanted to look away at the unashamed display of affection. It felt foreign to him, like something he had never been allowed to have. Even though touching between all three of them was second nature now, when Ron slung his arm around Harry, or Hermione touched her fingers to his wrist, he felt a wave of surprise. 

“Fine,” Ron huffed, wiggling free. His hair was almost as wild as Harry’s, but he seemed not to care. “S’pose we should make the most of our last day of freedom.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes at that, but they all made their way out, taking a moment to stare up at the globe from below before they walked through the study corridor and out towards the Great Hall. 

It felt strange to be back, walking past familiar and mysterious portraits, standing and waiting for the stairs to shift into place so they could pass through. This was supposed to be their normal, and yet Harry didn’t think things had ever felt more anomalous. Every piece of the castle screamed at him that the war wasn’t over, even though it was: the staircase he and Luna had run up to the Ravenclaw common room, what he thought was the shadow of a scorch mark, a painting clapping and cheering for him. He wiped his suddenly damp palms on his thighs. It didn’t feel like they should be allowed to walk through the halls of Hogwarts, not when so much had happened here. 

“Alright, mate?” Ron asked, raising an eyebrow and peering at him. Harry tried to smile, but he was sure it looked all wrong, so he opted for the truth instead.

“It feels weird being back. Like we shouldn’t be here, or—I don’t know—I didn’t think they would repair it so fast,” he said, stumbling. 

“I know what you mean,” Hermione said, her voice dropping down to a whisper. “People died here.” 

None of them had anything to add to that, so they continued in silence. Harry couldn’t help the images and faces popping up in his mind. Lives he could have saved, if he had only done something, tried harder. It wasn’t his fault, but wasn’t it? It seemed that despite being dead, Voldemort’s skeletal hands were still reaching out, trying to pull them all under. 

In the Great Hall, they sat down at the eighth year table, which had been tacked on next to the Slytherin’s. Dean, Luna, Neville, and Parvati had already cordoned off a little section for the Gryffindors (and one Ravenclaw, of course), with three empty spaces available.

“Thanks,” Harry said, echoing Ron and Hermione, as they all tried to shake the gloom that had pervaded their walk over. There were a few Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs in little house clusters, but the only Slytherin was Malfoy, sitting alone at the end corner, staring down into his breakfast plate. 

“So much for inter-house unity,” Parvati was saying, nibbling on a piece of toast. “Did you see the globe this morning? I keep getting scared it’s going to break.” 

“I don’t see how McGonagall expects us to settle it down, not when it would mean getting along with the Slytherin lot,” Ron said around a bite of sausage. 

“Oh, I’m sure they’re not all bad,” Luna said, but didn’t elaborate when everyone stopped eating to stare. 

Dean shrugged. “We could always leave it to the Hufflepuffs.”

“I think that’s part of the problem,” said Hermione with a grimace. “We all think of each other as the ‘other.’”

“Well, we’re nothing like the Slytherins,” Ron piped up. 

“I know,” Hermione said, brow furrowed, as if she was trying to puzzle something out. “I know, but we have to try…” 

Harry had almost been sorted into Slytherin, so surely there were similarities for him, at least. He had saved Malfoy, and Malfoy had saved him. However, Harry found he was too distracted to bring up this point, more concerned with the prickling feeling assaulting his back. Turning around, he looked across the other tables. Was he imagining things, or were people staring at him? At the Slytherin table, he noticed someone holding up the Daily Prophet to hide their face, but _he_ was plastered all over the front cover. It was him coming out of the Ministry after the Malfoy family trial. That had happened at the beginning of the summer, and yet they continued to run new articles on it, interviewing new people who allegedly had insider knowledge. As he watched, the Slytherin didn’t even turn the pages, just slowly lowered it down. They were looking directly at Harry. When they realised he was staring at them, and their eyes met, the Slytherin burned red and hastily pulled the paper back up. Harry felt queasy looking at his own tired face, memories of that day attempting to weasel into his mind. 

Turning back to his meal, he suddenly didn’t feel hungry at all. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck, a hundred eyes boring into the back of his head. When he looked up from his plate, he noticed two things: Malfoy was gone, and Hannah was staring at him. She smiled, and it was so full of pity he thought he might be sick right there in the Hall. 

“I’m going,” he said. “I need some space.” 

“Alright, Harry,” Hermione said, and her look of concern made his stomach roll. The last thing he did before leaving was to thoughtlessly flick his hand, sending the copy of the Prophet that the Slytherin had been reading flying across the room. He hoped no one had noticed, didn’t need more gossip about the “war hero Harry Potter” performing wordless and wandless magic. At the same time, maybe it would be alright if they did, everyone would be looking at the discarded Prophet for a moment, instead of at him. 

The Entrance Hall was fairly empty, students either at breakfast or already off in the world, doing whatever it was normal students did the Sunday before term. Harry hurried toward the doors and, with a quick look around, stepped behind a suit of armor to drag his invisibility cloak over his head. 

He ignored the cajoling look one of the portraits gave him, _you’re pretty cowardly for a Gryffindor_ , and headed outside. He’d done his time being brave. 

The air was crisp with the transition from summer to autumn, and Harry let the fresh air fill his lungs. Through the glittery gauziness of the invisibility cloak, the Hogwarts grounds seemed even more magical than usual. He didn’t realise he was heading to the Quidditch pitch until he was halfway there. Without his broom, there wasn’t much he’d be able to do, but it might be nice just to sit in the stands. If no one else was there, maybe he could even take the cloak off. Wouldn’t that be a treat? 

But when he arrived on the clean grass of the pitch, peering up at the huge goalposts, he soon found he was not alone. Sitting with his back against one of the smaller hoops was Malfoy, his head tilted back, exposing the long line of his neck. It was probably the invisibility cloak, but Malfoy seemed even more ethereal just then, blond fringe falling into his face, cheeks flushed from the nipping breeze. 

Harry crept forward, and since Malfoy hadn’t opened his eyes, he sat down a little ways across from him, leaning against the center post. He made sure the cloak was tucked snugly around his feet, and then sat there, watching. 

A stream of sunlight was falling directly on Malfoy’s face, and with a bit of a shock, Harry realised Malfoy was sunbathing, soaking in the rays, letting them warm him from the outside in. Every so often, Malfoy would shift positions, crossing his legs, or bringing one knee up to his chest and letting the other stretch out in front of him. Harry felt enraptured, watching Malfoy roll his neck, run a hand through his hair. His eyelashes fluttered, but never once did he open his eyes. 

The grass tickled Harry’s ankle, and he wondered, was this a place where Malfoy felt at peace? This was somewhere that brought Harry a sense of joy, could it possibly be the same for Malfoy? Harry shivered at the thought, or perhaps because the sun had gone behind a cloud. 

Finally, Malfoy opened his eyes, and for one fatal moment, Harry thought Malfoy was staring directly at him. Surely not, he couldn’t be, how could he—but then Malfoy turned away and looked around the pitch. It seemed he was confirming he was still alone, so Harry let himself relax. Malfoy yawned, stretching his hands over his head, not unlike a white cat. 

Despite that slip-up, covered in the cloak, Harry felt invincible. He basked in Malfoy’s bony wrists, the slice of belly revealed by his stretching, pale hairs visible on his lower abdomen. He allowed himself this moment of unabashed looking, knowing the shame would set in later. He wasn’t thinking of that. Underneath the cloak, Harry was not Harry, he was someone else. He was not famous. He was a nobody admiring a somebody. That was alright, wasn’t it? It was alright for not-Harry to think Malfoy’s wrists and ankles seemed handsome, for not-Harry to reflect on how green the grass was compared to Malfoy’s skin. 

Malfoy stood up, breaking not-Harry out of his moment. He tucked his hands in his pockets, and made his way off the pitch. Not-Harry stood up quickly, shifting the cloak, and trailed after him, hoping the sounds of his footsteps would be cushioned by the outdoors and the wind. 

What was he doing? If not-Harry had half a mind, he would go back to the pitch, pull off the cloak, and sit there alone. Or at least go back to the common room, instead of following Malfoy on his Sunday stroll. 

Yet he did neither of those things. He watched as Malfoy came up to the edge of the Great Lake and peered down into the water. Harry sidled up as close as he dared and tried to figure out what Malfoy was doing. What was he hoping for?

Not-Harry looked into the water, but of course, had no reflection. He grimaced, the feeling too uncanny. He felt his mind clawing at the edges of his body. 

_I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here._

_You’re right here, you idiot_ , not-Harry told himself. _You’re right here standing next to Malfoy._

He was absolutely mad. If Harry knew that not-Harry was following Malfoy around, he’d be bloody pissed. If Ron and Hermione, if any of the Gryffindors knew that not-Harry—oh, fuck it, if they knew that Harry was following Malfoy around like he had in sixth year, they’d absolutely lose it. 

No, this certainly wouldn’t do. Harry turned abruptly and left Malfoy staring down at the water, reflection breaking apart across the choppy surface. Harry stalked all the way back to the common room with his invisibility cloak on, feeling anger circle around him as if it were stuck under the fabric.

Why had Malfoy come back? He could have just fucked off to the continent like his mother. For Merlin’s sake, he had insulted all of Harry’s friends, broken his nose, and made his life a living hell. But if Harry was being honest with himself, he had forgiven Malfoy already. He recalled the Prophet photo, how he had been so exhausted after testifying on behalf of Malfoy and his mother, after watching Lucius sentenced to five years in Azkaban, but how his sorry appearance had paled in comparison to how sickly Malfoy had looked that day. Yes, Malfoy could have fucked off to the continent, and yes, Harry was currently very mad at Malfoy for reasons he couldn’t quite discern, but maybe… Maybe Harry was glad that Malfoy had decided to return to Hogwarts. Just maybe. 

With those thoughts tumbling around his head, as he was climbing up the stairs to the third floor, he saw someone coming down with The Quibbler tucked under their arm. Once again, he was plastered on the front cover, but this time, instead of looking tired, he was… smiling. He couldn’t remember having that photo taken. Was that how people saw him? Not tired, but elated at having won the war? 

Should he be elated? He stopped at the top of the stairs, sidestepping quickly as a group of Hufflepuffs approached behind him. He realised his hands were shaking. 

Why wasn’t he happy? He hurried up the stairs to the West Wing, breathing rapidly. Voldemort was gone. Why did he feel this way? _Why wasn’t he happy?_

Mouth dry and heart stuttering, Harry reached up from beneath the cloak and clutched the handle to the common room. Warmth radiated across his palm, and he ran his thumb over the grooves of the runes. He took a shallow sip of air, his throat clenching. He pushed down on the handle, and pressed the door open. 

No heads turned as the door opened and closed of its own accord, no one sat at the few study spots sequestered throughout the hallway. He took another sip of air, and another. He didn’t need to be happy, but he didn’t need to be unhappy. It was fine, he was fine. 

He sat down heavily at the nearest desk, and pulled off his cloak. He twisted the fabric between his fingers and breathed, in and out, while looking out across Hogwarts. He let the scenery wash over him, gaze skipping from one thing to the next, as he stroked the cloak with his thumb. Slowly, he came back down to earth, and when he felt well enough to stand, made for the common room.

In front of the fire, Dean and Ron were playing a batch of wizard’s chess, Hermione was talking to Parvati, and a few other students milled about. 

He looked up. The globe was as angry as ever. Snow had begun swirling around the glass, flurries breaking apart and melting on the walls, which were rumbling with tension. The glow of the golden rings was barely visible in the sunlight. 

“Harry!” Hermione called, waving him over. “McGonagall will be here soon, we were wondering where you went.” 

He shrugged, not keen to explain he’d been following Malfoy. “I went for a bit of a walk. Needed some fresh air.” 

Hermione nodded sagely, and then slid over so he could sit next to her on the sofa. “Did you know that we have our own astronomy tower?” 

“No?” 

Parvati broke in, looking extremely excited. It was the most awake she’d seemed since coming back. “It’s attached to the common room, so we can do our own research without going out past curfew. I stopped in to talk to Trelawney after breakfast—” Parvati stopped abruptly, as if a memory had made itself unwelcome. She and Lavender had loved to obsess over divination and astrology; no doubt she was picturing Lavender, still in a coma in St. Mungo's, great slashes flaying open her body from head to toe. 

Hermione picked up the slack hurriedly. “McGonagall will tell us more about it after she hands out the schedules. Although really, I just want to know who made the globe.”

Harry glanced at it again. Had its weather changed when he was sitting with Malfoy on the pitch? Would it even reflect something like that? Had the snow let up slightly, as he watched the sun glint off Malfoy’s hair? It didn’t bear thinking about. 

“I bet they’re magnificent,” Hermione sighed dreamily.

“Oi,” Ron said playfully, while Harry stared in confusion.

“Who?” 

“Whoever made the globe,” she said, as if his not paying attention had rather offended her.

Ron rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and Dean whispered something to him conspiratorially. Slowly, more students entered the common room. Malfoy arrived looking windswept and sat down at the opposite end of the fireplace. He looked out of sorts and lonely, until he was joined by Zabini and Parkinson. It seemed that only those three Slytherins had returned, and Harry wondered why Zabini or Parkinson had even bothered.

“A bit frightening to know they were both up there together,” Ron whispered. “What do you reckon they were doing? Planning how Blaise could murder Neville and me in our sleep?” 

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the other Gryffindors that had come to sit around them all laughed, including Harry, though he kept his eyes on Malfoy, who had his head inclined towards Zabini. 

Stray Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs filtered in, joining their companions at tables and sofas, and then McGonagall swept into the common room. She was followed by someone Harry didn’t recognize. He was wearing long navy blue robes, gold accents sewn along the hems, and as he walked, Harry caught flashes of pointed silver boots. 

“Good afternoon students. I don’t want to keep you long before lunch so I will try to keep this quick. This is Professor Altair, who will be teaching Astronomy this year.” 

“Good afternoon all,” he smiled. “This being an unprecedented year for all of us, we made the decision to give you all your own Astronomy tower. I will be giving you lessons and take home assignments, which you can then do at your own pace. Access to the tower will be twenty-four seven, but with a Watch Bird. I trust you will use it responsibly.” 

A chorus of agreement rang around the room. The Astronomy Tower was tucked in a little corner, and Professor Altair opened the door to usher the students in. As they filed up the tower two at a time, Harry trailed behind Malfoy, mesmerized by the way his robes flared out behind him. He couldn’t stop staring at Malfoy’s back, the green accents around his collar, and the way the hair at the nape of his neck curled over said collar. 

He squinted as they all circled a wide platform. Sunlight streamed in, glittering off golden telescopes and illuminating shelves of Astronomy textbooks. An animatronic solar system was suspended above, rotating slowly, the dark ceiling charmed to represent the galaxy it resided in, whisps and dots of stars and planets. 

In the center of the parapet sat a silver owl, head curled into its side. When the last student had crammed into the space, it slowly awoke, staring at them with large, empty eyes. It rotated its head nearly all the way around, taking in all their faces. Harry felt the uncanny sensation that it was committing them all to memory, mapping the specific lines and builds of their profiles. 

“This,” Professor Altair said, “is the Watch Owl. An invention of my own, a mixture of mechanics and magic.”

As they looked on, the owl unfurled its wings, revealing them to be thin sheaths of metal. Its motions were unnatural, like that of a wind up toy. 

“If any of you should break the rules– that includes flying out of the tower or breaking the books and tools the school has so generously provided to you– my owl will know.” 

Some of the students shuffled their feet, nodding dejectedly. Any thoughts of getting off in their own private tower were dashed to pieces. 

“I will be posting your assignments on the door, and you will return them to me via my office at the end of every fortnight. When there’s a new assignment, the star etched in the door on the ground floor will glow. It’s all quite enchanting, is it not?” 

Ron rolled his eyes, giving Harry a _look_. He couldn’t quite decipher it, but Ron was obviously not a fan. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she was trying to hide how impressed she was. 

It was Lockhart all over again.

Ron elbowed Harry in the side. “It’s like Lockhart all over again,” he whispered. Harry chuckled good naturedly, but he sincerely hoped that the whole thing would be nothing like the incidents with Lockhart. No cursed diary, no empty promises, no cocksure attitudes. 

“I will always be available for questions, but you should all have the foundations for this course already.” 

He took a moment to explain their first assignment, giving a brief tutorial on how to properly use a telescope, and then he clapped his hands, the owl went back to sleep, and they were all filing back down the stairs. 

McGonagall was waiting with a stack of parchment. She waved her wand and the schedules settled in their hands. 

Quickly scanning his timetable, Harry groaned. Double potions twice a week with the seventh years. It was always the worst classes that came in doubles, but he supposed he would need the help. Although he did have advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms to look forward to, which would just be the eighth years, and self-study in Astronomy and Herbology. 

“I talked to Professor Sprout,” Neville said. All the Gryffindors had grouped together. “We’re basically going to be taking care of the greenhouse so she has time to teach the two first year classes.” 

“Charms should be interesting,” Dean added. “I wonder what Flitwick will have us doing?” 

“I just can’t believe we’re all going to be together… almost all the time,” Ron said, voice lowering. “No escape from the Slytherins.” 

“It won’t be all bad,” Parvati said, but she didn’t sound sure. “Firenze and Trelawney are giving me private Divination lessons, since no one else wanted them.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

Harry looked over to where the Slytherins were all sitting together on one of the sofas. They were comparing timetables, heads bent. Were Malfoy’s hands shaking? 

Harry wondered what classes Malfoy would be taking. Potions? Alchemy? He had always been Snape’s favourite, but Slughorn hadn’t been so keen. Well, they would probably be in the same Defense class, and whether that was a blessing or a curse, Harry wasn’t sure.

“I don’t understand why you’re taking Astronomy, mate,” Ron said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. Just as Harry was turning to talk to Ron, Malfoy looked up. They locked eyes for a moment, then Malfoy flushed and began talking to Zabini. It sent goose pimples running up Harry’s arms. “You could have given it up for free periods.” 

“It’ll basically be a free period,” Harry said. What he didn’t say was that, unlike Ron, he wasn’t so sure about the Aurors anymore. Who was he outside of tracking down Voldemort and killing Death Eaters? That couldn’t be his life forever, surely. He’d had enough of that, thank you very much. What if his true passion was mapping stars? Or… plants. He wanted to stay open to any possibilities. How many nights in the Astronomy tower had been spent discussing Dark Arts, rather than focusing on the subject? In the Greenhouse, ignoring the mandrakes and petunias? Too many.

“Well, I’m going to go firecall Seamus,” Dean said, heading upstairs. Neville said something about checking in on the greenhouse, Parvati wanted to meet with Firenze, and that left Harry, Ron, and Hermione, heading down to the kitchens for a late lunch. 

That night, Harry lay in bed, feeling the pull of the empty common room below. He had to clench his covers in his fists to stop himself from leaving the dormitories. He was too scared of who might be down there to leave.

-x- 

Of course, it didn’t matter if Harry lay in bed all night. Eventually, things would catch up to him. He spent breakfast trying to ignore the eyes burrowing into his back. In Potions, he pretended not to hear the whispers. Then he stood in front of the door to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, trying to breathe. 

He had pulled off the invisibility cloak when he turned the corner on the fourth floor to the new DADA classroom, and as his hand lay on the doorknob, he felt his chest constrict. 

He had waved Hermione and Ron away this morning so he could walk through the corridor unseen, and part of him regretted it. At least if they were here, one of them would elbow him into the classroom. 

“Are you going to stand there all day?” a sharp voice asked, and Harry would have known it anywhere. 

He took one shuddering breath, and then let it out slowly, focusing on the movement. 

“Patience is a virtue, _Malfoy_.” 

Malfoy glared viciously, waiting for something. For Harry to open the door. He exhaled again and turned the handle and walked into the classroom. He sat next to Ron and Hermione and watched Malfoy slide in next to Zabini. 

A stony-faced woman with a high, white ponytail stood at the front of the classroom. She could have been sixty, or over a hundred, but her intimidation rivaled that of McGonagall. Her bright blue eyes were ice cold, her nose hooked, her lips a thin, tight line, and she very much looked like a bird of prey. 

“Now that everyone has decided to show up,” she said, voice scathing, yet underlined by a certain warmth. “My name is Professor Savage, I’m a retired Auror, and I will not put up with any bullshit.” 

Though they were all adults, there was a ripple of shock at a professor swearing so openly in front of a class. She continued without a single flinch of recognition.

“I will be honest with you all, and as such, expect you to be honest with me. Focus on your work and be upfront with me, and I think we will have an enjoyable year.” 

She walked up to the chalkboard, and tapped her wand on the surface aggressively. 

“Today, we will start with the basics: what are the Dark Arts, and how can we tell they’re there?” 

Savage reminded him of Mad Eye, but in a very good way. It felt startlingly refreshing to be treated like an adult, like someone who could make their own decisions.

“Who would like to refresh my memory?” Professor Savage asked, and of course, Hermione’s hand shot up. 

“Ms. Granger, is it?” 

“Yes. The Dark Arts refers to any magic that is mainly used to cause harm to, exert control over, or kill a victim,” she said, sounding exactly like their textbook. Thankfully, some things never changed. 

“Good. And how does one figure out if dark magic has been performed?” She drew a dash on the board, and looked out expectantly. 

“Mr. Longbottom?” she asked, though Neville’s hand was not up. He looked like he wanted to melt into his seat. Professor Savage smiled, hard but encouraging.

“Uhm, I suppose, with a revealing spell?” 

“Very good,” she nodded, and scribbled on the board, the chalk grating. _Tenebris revelio_. “Mr. Zabini?” she asked next, without turning around, as she made the next dash.

Somewhere after that first question to Hermione, the class started perking up, moving from slumped in their seats to listening attentively, as Savage embellished the lecture with stories of her own Auror experience. Despite this, as the lesson continued, Harry couldn't stop his eyes from drifting over to Malfoy. He wondered if Malfoy could feel his gaze, like Harry could so often feel that of others. He hoped not, otherwise Malfoy’s back must have been on fire. Harry couldn’t stop searching for outlines of Malfoy’s shoulder blades through his robes, or for flashes of his wrists as he took notes. He found himself gazing at the shell of Malfoy’s ear, as if he was trying to memorize each curve in Malfoy’s face. In the end, Hermione had to elbow Harry in the side, as Professor Savage asked him a question. 

She raised an eyebrow when he asked her to repeat it, and Malfoy turned, looking like his best friend had just been murdered. Which had indeed already happened in the past. Of course, as a cold feeling of deja vu trickled down Harry’s back, it all made him even more distracted as he tried to answer, and what came out was a jumbled mess. Harry didn’t know why it felt like his heart was shriveling under Malfoy’s continued gaze, but when he met Malfoy’s eyes, and Malfoy glared, he felt it suddenly darken and compress, winding tightly, and for some reason, becoming so painful he couldn’t quite breathe. 

Harry left class quickly even though Hermione and Ron wanted to stay behind and talk to Professor Savage. He was the first one out, and he quickly donned the invisibility cloak, waiting for Malfoy to finally leave the classroom. 

Malfoy strode out, still stuffing a quill into his satchel, bookended by Zabini and Parkinson. He was frowning, lips pinched, and as Harry fell into step behind them, he could just make out Malfoy’s grumbling. 

“I think Savage is alright,” he heard Parkinson say. “I mean, she seems fit for her age.” 

“Pans, that is disgusting,” Zabini drawled. 

“Oh shut it, I know you want a sugar witch, why can’t I have one?”

Harry could sense Zabini’s eye roll even from behind. 

“Stop squabbling,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re both ridiculous.” 

“Really?” Pansy snorted. “You’re the one who spent the whole lesson glaring daggers at Potter.”

“Yes, well—” 

“You really need to let it go, Draco,” Blaise sniffed. “We’re all adults, and he’s one of the most powerful wizards in Great Britain, if not the world, right now.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Draco growled, and with a swish of robes and a flick of his blond hair, he peeled off from the other Slytherins. He stalked off down an adjacent corridor, throwing a stoic wave over his shoulder.

Harry hurried after him, holding his bag close to his hip to stop it from making noise. He wished he had left it behind, but there was no way he was turning back now, not when it seemed Malfoy was once again going off alone. 

The last time, it had probably just been to get away from the crowd, but this time maybe he really was up to something. Trying to boot Professor Savage out of her position? Plotting to do something to Harry or Ron while they slept? 

Malfoy hurried up a flight of stairs, and then another. Halfway up, Harry realised where they were going, and was not surprised when they ended up on the seventh floor corridor. It was painfully quiet, most of the portraits empty but for stretching landscapes, the long branches of willows trailing over ponds and rivers. 

The sound of Malfoy’s shoes clacking against the floor reverberated around Harry’s skull, and he stood there, watching Malfoy pace three times, his face screwed up in concentration. 

When a door appeared, Harry couldn’t stop himself from moving closer. With one sudden move, Malfoy could collide with Harry’s solid form, and he held his breath, watching Malfoy reach forward cautiously for the door handle, fingers trembling. In a burst of courage, Malfoy wrapped his hand around the handle, and Harry gasped along with him, as Malfoy hissed and jumped back, his palm red and blistering. 

He pulled out his wand, muttering a healing spell, and then reached forward again, delicately placing a fingertip to the door handle. Again, he pulled back, hissing. 

Harry watched Malfoy closely, saw the emotions flickering across his face, something like fear, grief, and anger, but before they could settle, Malfoy’s face shuttered. He stalked away, leaving Harry standing invisible in the corridor. 

Harry watched Malfoy head down the stairs, and then pulled off his invisibility cloak. He stood in front of the door. He had watched Malfoy, but he needed to feel this himself. 

With a deep breath, he touched the door handle. It was burning hot. He pulled away, the tips of his fingers smarting, and with shaking hands, draped his invisibility cloak back around himself. The Room of Requirement was still on fire. Harry imagined it would be forever. There had to be an almost infinite amount of fiendfyre behind that door, something that no wizard could possibly control. 

No one would ever again stumble across a broom cupboard just when they needed to hide, or find a place to store their secret possessions. The room that had hosted Dumbledore’s Army, where Ron and Hermione had cast their first patronuses,a safe haven during the war, was lost to fire and time, as it would be forever, without question. 

It was only as he stepped onto the third floor that Harry realised Vincent Crabbe’s body would still be in the Room of Requirement, if his skeleton hadn’t already been incinerated. Would his ashes be sitting there, continuously burning, or would those be gone too, burnt up until it was as if he never existed? 

Harry shuddered and walked into the eighth year common room, his heart wallowing somewhere down by his feet. His mouth felt dry, his head was pounding, and he felt as if an oil spill had happened inside him, all his internal organs dripping with chromatic blackness. He hurried into his dormitory, scared he was about to sick up all over the front hallway. 

Once inside, he stumbled towards his bed, throwing off the cloak. The room was empty, beds made, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows. 

Right, because there were still classes. He tried to remember where he was supposed to be, but became preoccupied by the fact that he had broken out in a cold sweat. He reached for the empty glass on his bedside table planning to fill it with water, but his vision doubled, and he couldn’t tell if the water-making spell would get into the glass or just spill all over his bedsheets. 

He wobbled to the bathroom, sticking his head in the sink so he could lap up the steady stream of water from the tap. He felt a bit better after ingesting liquids, and was able to strip down to his boxers before he got under the covers of his bed. 

He wiped his forehead, hand coming away damp, and took a shuddering breath. 

He laid there, attempting to continue breathing, as he stared up at the ceiling, trying to forget the image of a skull sitting on a bed of ash, flames erupting from its sockets, as it slowly melted away. 

-x- 

He was underwater, surrounded by huge stalks of kelp, their cold arms wrapping around his limbs, trying to pull him apart. He wanted to scream, but all that came out were bubbles, floating upwards toward relief. As he struggled, the world began to shake, huge tremors rocking through the ocean floor. With each vibration, someone called out to him, but their voice was muffled. He continued to struggle until the weeds gave one final tug and threw him towards the surface. 

He woke up with a start, drenched in sweat, his glasses pressing uncomfortably into his right cheek. 

“Harry!” Hermione said. She was kneeling next to him, and relief was clear in her voice. “We were so worried when you didn’t show up for charms.” 

“It’s almost dinner, mate,” Ron said, sitting on the foot of Harry’s bed. 

Harry sat up, fixing his glasses, and looked around. The sun was still up, but it looked like it would be setting soon. Suddenly, he was very hot. 

“I didn’t feel well.” 

“Why didn’t you go see Madame Pomfrey? She could have given you something—” 

Harry glowered. He didn’t want to be interrogated, he wanted to take a cold shower. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, Hermione.” 

“But you’re in bed, and you took your clothes off.” 

“I told you, I wasn’t feeling well. And I need to go shower. I’ll meet you guys for dinner.” 

Hermione and Ron shared a look, which only made Harry more infuriated. When they finally left, he grabbed his clothes and headed to the bathroom, suddenly very thankful that his dormitory was one of the few with direct access. 

He turned on the tap and let the cold water run over him. It lit up his nerves, sent goose pimples across his skin, and slowly washed away all the panic from earlier. 

Later, at dinner, he apologised to Hermione and Ron. They had been worried, was all. Harry couldn’t be too mad at Hermione’s inquisitive nature, which had gotten him out of heaps of trouble before, and he appreciated how much she cared. It felt like old times for a little bit, joshing around with the Gryffindors, but like old times, Harry’s eyes drifted over to the Slytherin side of the table, where Malfoy was absent. 

Harry didn’t feel very hungry after that, despite skipping lunch, and spent the rest of dinner pushing food around his plate, making a half hearted attempt at his pudding. 

Had Malfoy been as upset by the Room as he was? Had he also skipped classes, trying to banish images from his mind? Had anyone even bothered checking up on him? The Slytherin trio seemed tight knit, but were Zabini and Parkinson the type of friends who would come find you if you went missing, or would they assume you wanted space?

Later still, in the common room, Harry ended up staring at the weather globe. A vortex of snow created strange shapes within, flurries of white, curves of glass patchily frosted over. It was mesmerising, and yet Harry still found time to look over at the couches near the tea corner, where Malfoy was drinking from a silvery mug, dark patches under his eyes, talking in low voices with Parkinson. 

It was always later. Harry never could live in the present. It was as if he was eternally waiting for the next moment, the next thing. His thoughts would stray to Malfoy, and he couldn’t resist the path they took him down. What was Malfoy doing now, and what would he be doing later?

That was how Harry found himself slipping out of bed in the middle of the night, carefully picking up his cloak, and tiptoeing so as not to wake Anthony, Dean, and Wayne, who were all sound asleep. 

Out on the bannister, the weather globe had calmed from its earlier storm to a languid snowfall. Fluffy snowflakes melted as they touched the bottom of the glass, and water rose back up, only to fall again.

Everything felt different under the light of the globe, like they were living in a photograph, or a muggle motion picture. Like in his nightmare, Harry felt he was wading through water, looking in on his life from another body. 

The feeling clung to him as he crept down the spiraling stairs, weaved through the mainroom, and gently, slowly, opened the door to the Astronomy tower. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect upon reaching the platform. It was past midnight, and the world was quiet and sullen, like no one else existed in the universe. Yet once he stepped into the tower, his mind was immediately shoved back into his body. With startling clarity, he existed in the present, and found himself staring at the back of Draco Malfoy. 

He was leaning on the gold railing, staring up at the sky. He wasn’t using a telescope, or scribbling down notes. In fact, he was wearing a pair of white pyjamas, and his hair was mussed, as if he had just crept out of bed. The Watch Owl had one eye open, and it was trained on Malfoy.

A slight breeze rippled the cloak around Harry’s feet, and he crept forward. Draco looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, pale cheeks hollowed, and his lips bitten raw. Yet, in that moment, under the dim light of the moon, he also looked celestial. The realisation hit Harry so harshly, he found it terrifying, how beautiful Draco really was. 

Looking at Malfoy, whose gaze and posture were completely relaxed, his eyelashes fluttering, grey eyes peering intently into the night sky, something in Harry unwound, a silver cord that had been cinched tight his entire life. He wanted to give the end of that cord to Malfoy, have him tie it around his pinkie, and Harry would tie one end around his own, because God, Merlin, Salazar, fuck, Malfoy was really, truly, unequivocally beautiful. He was sharp, and Harry wanted to cut himself on the edges. 

Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair, and turned as if he was going to approach Harry, but instead, just made his way out of the Astronomy tower.

Just like that, Harry shattered into a million invisible pieces, glittering across the moonlit tower. He tried to pick them up and found himself falling into memories. Seeing Malfoy in Madam Malkin’s, rejecting him over and over, dueling, feeling a fire lit in his belly, staying up late staring at Malfoy’s dot on the Marauder’s Map, watching as Malfoy was unable to kill Dumbledore. And then in the Manor, Harry had seen the glint of recognition in Malfoy’s eyes, and he had _chosen_ not to identify Harry, to save him. 

As he headed back to his own dormitory, Harry’s arms overflowed with the glittering bits. He tried not to wake anyone as he got into bed, surrounded by memories, stabbing himself on all the pieces. He slept poorly, serene nothingness intermingled with dreams of Malfoy in the tower. 

The next day, Harry avoided Malfoy entirely. He tried his best not to use the cloak and spend time with Ron and Hermione, studying and playing chess, out of fear that he wouldn’t be able to help himself. It was all he could do not to break apart again.

At dinner, Harry ate quickly, as if sitting there a moment longer with Malfoy at the other end of the table would send all his pieces skittering across the floor. 

He convinced Ginny to go flying. Ron gave him a grateful look as he and Hermione went off... and then Harry quickly convinced her to go back inside, when a small crowd gathered in the stands, whispering as they watched the Chosen One and his ex-girlfriend catch and release the Snitch.

As he opened the door to the common room, Harry decided he really wanted a nice, classic cup of black tea, and to sit by the fire and let his mind go empty. But as he made his way through the study hall and into the main room, he winced. Malfoy was standing by the tea counter, levitating the kettle and pouring himself a cup. 

Harry steadied himself. He could go put the kettle on while Malfoy was there, he could stand in civil silence for a few minutes, he could, really. 

“‘Scuse me, Malfoy,” Harry muttered, and Malfoy stepped out of the way, pulling his cup towards him on the counter. He was steeping some loose leaf Earl Grey, and had a small Tempus levitating amongst the rising steam, counting down. Okay, Harry only had to be near Malfoy’s presence, without the aid of the cloak, for three more minutes. 

Harry turned on the tap, filling the kettle and putting it to boil. Sure, he could have used his wand and the water-making spell, but something about the familiar routine was grounding. 

He stood there, waiting, as the kettle began to hiss, and Malfoy’s timer slowly ticked down. Harry rifled through the cupboard and found a nice mug with a roaring lion on it, just to kind of shove it in Malfoy’s face a little, with his green and silver teacup. 

Harry felt the hair on his arms raise, his skin prickling. He shivered and glanced at Malfoy, who quickly looked away himself. 

After years of radiating hatred, of intense glares and subtle jabs, it was all going to come down to… what? A chilled silence on an autumn evening, and a kettle full of apathy? 

Harry felt himself finally begin to boil over, the need to drag Malfoy into whatever this was bubbling, an uncontainable thing. Why burn alone, if you could burn together, Harry reasoned. And so he spoke. 

“Are you as stuck up about tea as everything else?” Harry asked.

Malfoy looked down his nose, grey eyes narrowing. “Of course I am, tea is a fine art.” 

“That’s pretentious,” Harry replied. 

Malfoy sniffed, pretentiously. “Well, I suppose someone like you just wouldn’t understand.” 

“Someone like me?”

At least Malfoy had the decency to blush, which made Harry’s stomach swoop. 

“Yes, I mean, that’s what I said,” Malfoy tried, his neck now turning pink. “You grew up with muggles.” 

“Oh, right. Well,” Harry laughed darkly. “It was hard enough convincing them to feed me, let alone get me the right cup of tea.” 

At that moment, Malfoy’s timer chimed sweetly, and his aghast expression cleared as he set about adding a dollop of honey and some lemon.

“Why the lemon?” 

“Brings out the bergamot.” 

“Bergamot?” 

“Salazar, Potter, you really are deprived.” Malfoy shook his head. “It’s a citrus.” 

Harry vanished his teabag and added a splash of milk. Malfoy stood there, hands around his teacup, staring. How did you politely close a conversation with your potentially reformed arch-nemesis? 

They faced each other, holding their tea, hands warming, and didn’t speak. It was strange, to marvel at Malfoy in the open, and to be marveled at in return. Could Malfoy tell that Harry was shattered on the inside? That he had fallen quite hard? Harry looked into Malfoy’s eyes, and tried to pick him apart. See if there were any fissured cracks in his face, across the bridge of his nose, down his lip, his chin, his neck. 

Then, as if remembering who he was, and where they were, Malfoy glared, nodded, and walked away.

Harry was left with a mug full of shattered glass. Or at least, that’s what he assumed, because laying in bed that night, he felt his throat and his stomach had been shredded to pieces. Once again, Harry didn’t sleep well. 

From that point on, Harry thought of Malfoy constantly. It was sixth year all over again. Malfoy was the salve to Harry’s torn up throat, his pulverised heart. 

In the classes he shared with Malfoy, his attention hung on by a thread. 

In the classes he didn’t, Malfoy was still there, in the back of his mind. 

When classes were out, he threw on the invisibility cloak, and tried to breathe. If he found Malfoy, he followed him, wondering what he was doing, wondering if this strange pining was mutual. 

Harry didn’t classify his feelings, didn’t think, _Oh, is this a crush?_ Didn’t think about the implications, about what it could all mean. Didn’t think about what Malfoy might do if confronted with the mass of what Harry felt. It was like the weather globe had been transported inside him. His feelings for Malfoy were… strange. An all-consuming thing that raged inside him, oscillating between summer and winter, torrential downpours and bright, scattered light. 

As colder weather moved in on autumn, the pre-holiday nonsense made it relatively easy for the Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs to fall into an easy camaraderie. With a bit of time, snowball fights, and firewhisky, the differences between the houses seemed to fade away. 

During the first snowfall of the season, Hermione found out about Anthony’s interests in physics, and they quickly got into a conversation about combining Muggle science and more malleable strands of magic. As house elves scurried about decorating the castle, it turned out that Sue was going to become a Master Astronomer. This meant she got along well with Parvati. They both loved star charts, albeit for slightly different reasons. On a trip to Hogsmeade, Neville and Hannah Abbott bonded over an obsession with Herbology, roping in Luna, Padma, and a few of Hannah’s other Hufflepuff friends. Under the suspended snowflakes in the common room, it turned out that Wayne was almost as good at wizarding chess as Ron, and beneath his shyness, just as competitive. The night before everyone returned home, they all sat like one house in the dining hall, conversation bubbling over about plans for the holidays.

The only outsiders were the Slytherins. They stuck to their end of the table, went off by themselves on Hogsmeade trips, and sectioned off their own corner of the common room that no one else dared upset. 

This was the state Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny left Hogwarts in, as they returned to the Burrow for Christmas.

Much to Harry’s surprise, he was able to go nearly the entire holiday without being confronted about anything. Not his anxiety, nor Malfoy, and when he was, it wasn’t by Hermione or Ron. 

The second last day before leaving the bittersweet Burrow, Harry was sitting in the kitchen while Molly bent over the stove. 

“Harry dear—Oh, Ginny, perfect timing dear, won’t you and Harry go clear the drive?” 

Ginny huffed audibly. “Why can’t Ron do it?” 

“Because I’m asking you,” Molly said sternly, fixing Ginny with a motherly glare. And maybe because Ron and Hermione had managed to escape to his bedroom, and even Molly didn’t want to disturb that once it had started. Ginny rolled her eyes, but started putting on her scarf and mittens, not bothering with a coat as she cast a warming charm. Harry wrapped himself in his own Gryffindor scarf and pulled out his wand. 

Out in front, they walked silently and awkwardly through the snow, lifting their knees high. Snow got into the tops of their boots, and no warming charm could protect their toes. 

“I don’t see how this is my job,” Ginny grumbled, beginning to cast around them. “I swept the kitchen earlier.” 

“It just means Molly will make us hot chocolate when we’re done,” Harry supplied, joining in the wand waving. They began to melt the snow around them, creating a path from the back door.

“She better, it’s bloody frigid,” Ginny said, her cheeks and nose turning pink, snowflakes clinging to her hair. Although one might consider it rude to laugh at your ex-girlfriend, Harry found it hard not to. He couldn’t imagine complaining about this, not when muggle shoveling was so God awful, and not when there was a thank you and a warm mug waiting at the finish. 

“Thanks for that,” Ginny scowled, with none of the anger, and Harry bowed, as they continued to make their way towards the drive. 

“So,” Ginny began, and Harry flicked his wand absent mindedly, a huge snowbank melting down. “How have you been holding up lately?” 

Harry balked, stumbling over the snow in front of him, and ending up with soggy knees. Now it was her turn to laugh at his expense. 

“I’m okay,” he said, brushing himself off. 

“You’re lying,” she replied, pointing her wand accusingly. 

“Right then, I’m not okay. How have you been holding up?”

“I’m getting better, I think.” She waved her wand, nibbling on her lip absentmindedly. “It helps having Luna and Nev around. We talk a lot, about you know, and that helps.” 

Harry nodded. He hadn’t talked to Ron and Hermione about anything of much importance lately, but when the war had first ended, that had been the only thing keeping him together. Now, he was using Malfoy as a sort of buffer, too scared to intrude on their relationship to say anything.

“Are you lonely?” Ginny asked, her face so open, Harry felt he had to answer honestly. He didn’t love her like he had done before, but she was still Ginny, still his friend. She’d been one of the first people to hug him after he’d come back to life. He’d seen her face countless times, raw after waking up from a nightmare, and she’d seen his. You couldn’t cut off something like that. 

Harry opened his mouth to reply, closed it. “I guess… yeah, I am.” 

“Y’know, I miss being held,” she said. Both their wands had dropped to their sides. This wasn’t really a conversation you had absent mindedly, no matter how much they both wanted to pretend it was. 

“I just miss having, er, like a someone,” Harry fumbled, trying to wrench the feeling out of himself. Maybe if he put it into words, it would dissipate. Maybe it would just get stronger. “I miss knowing there was someone who would choose me, who was looking out for me… who wanted me here.” 

“Well, we all want you here,” Ginny said. “But I know what you mean, of course.” 

She quickly shot off a few spells, so they could move farther down the drive, their work almost done. Harry’s nose was properly cold now, so cold it was numb, as were his fingers and toes. He cast another warming charm, but it wasn’t quite strong enough.

“Have you found anyone that you think could be… a someone?” She asked, and Harry’s heart faltered. 

“Have you?” 

Ginny shrugged nonchalantly, but there was a nervousness there, under all her bravado. “I started thinking, about how it didn’t really work between us, how you were maybe interested in you know, the opposite sex, and how I had never really given a woman a chance before. Luna has started hanging around Pansy Parkinson, if you can believe it.” 

“I’m not—Really?”

“Her, Padma, and Parvati were friends before Hogwarts, apparently.” 

“But she…” Harry found he was choking on the words. “She tried to give me up to him, to _Voldemort_.” 

“I know, Harry,” Ginny smiled sadly. “Slytherin’s really are wankers.” 

“They _are_ ,” Harry said firmly, despite the fact that he had recently had a civil conversation with, and probably fallen for one. “They’re terrible pricks.” 

“Are they all, deep down, though?” Ginny asked, as if it were an honest question one just asked their ex-boyfriends who were also Gryffindors. It was such a surprise, coming from stubborn, house-proud Ginny, that Harry didn’t really know how to reply. Having his jaw hang open certainly wasn’t adequate. 

“So let me get this, well not straight, I suppose,” he said, not even meaning for it to come out that way. He didn’t mean to think it that way either, Merlin, was he really bi? “You want to shack up with Pansy Parkinson?” 

“I don’t know,” Ginny said. “Do you want to shack up with Draco Malfoy?”

Harry felt himself blush, and splutter, and that was probably all the confirmation Ginny needed, so why Harry felt the need to defend himself, he wasn’t sure. “I don’t, I hate him, he’s a poncy bastard.” 

“Okay, Harry, that’s okay. I hate Pansy too, for what it’s worth.” Ginny cast the final spell to clear the driveway, and they made their way back towards the warmth of the burrow and promise of hot chocolate. “She’s bloody hot though.” 

After that conversation, Harry was well and truly fucked. They returned from the holidays, the weather globe its ever turbulent self, no matter how much progress had been made, and the not-crush that the not-bisexual Harry had on the not actually a decent person Malfoy, raged like the snow storms outside Hogwarts and within the globe. 

As winter melted into spring, Harry found that second to being obsessed with Malfoy, he was obsessed with the globe. It was like a muggle snowglobe, or a terrarium. It allowed one to look in on the world in miniature, see something so delicate and tiny, yet still feel the sense of expansion within your chest, the knowledge that you were a very small speck in the context of the universe. It was something Harry could obsess over, without worrying about the harm it would cause his well being, the distress it might cause his friends, or the uproar it would create in the public.

Harry wanted to understand the magic behind it. He wanted to meet the creator and ask them, _Did you ever imagine your life would turn out this way?_

If they had, were they still happy about it, or had they made a mistake, all those years ago? 

It was in the greenhouse, when Harry realised, that the Slytherins were just globemakers who had also made mistakes long ago. Neville had defeated Nagini, who had contained the last part of Voldemort’s soul, it made sense he would be wise to the inner working of Slytherins.

"Make sure you clean the leaves after repotting," Neville whispered, careful not to wake the sleeping Lion Flowers. One loud noise would startle them awake, and it would be a flurry of snapping jaws and fighting for their lives. 

“Neville,” Harry whispered, “I thought you said this would be easy.” 

Parvati nodded frantically, as she tried to avoid the flailing arms of her Venomous Tentacula. 

Neville just shrugged, a small smile on his lips, as he turned his wand into a feather duster, and began to brush at the wide orange leaves of his Lion Flower. 

Harry was very gently prying the roots of one of the Lion cubs out of a pot, Sprout nowhere to be found. It was midday, and she had left the three of them to their own devices. They were preparing for the seventh and sixth years to start dealing with more dangerous plants, a volunteer position Neville had gladly accepted on behalf of all eighth year herbology students. 

“Trust Malfoy and Parkinson to skip out,” Harry grumbled, although he was secretly happy about not having to share the confined greenhouse space with Malfoy encroaching on his personal bubble. 

“They’re coming later,” Neville said. “They’re in advanced potions with Slughorn about now, so is Hannah.” 

“Never really would have pegged Parkinson for a potions girl.” 

“Ginny sure did,” Parvati grinned, and Harry cast her a withering glare. “Pegged Parkinson, I mean.” 

“Why would you say that?” Harry groaned. “I was fine without picturing my ex-girlfriend with pug-faced-Parkinson.”

“Hey,” Parvati said, trying to come off threatening despite their quiet voices. “There’s no reason to bring someone’s looks into it.” 

“I think Pansy has gotten quite nice, actually” Neville added, at which point both Parvati and Harry looked at him in surprise. “What? She helped me harvest the bitter root yesterday.” 

“You’re telling me she likes to garden,” Harry deadpanned. “That she doesn’t mind dirt under her nails?” 

“Oh, she doesn’t like that,” Neville conceded. “But she says it’s relaxing, to garden, that is, and I think she likes beauty potions. She wants to be head editor of Witch Weekly, you know?” 

“She does, does she?” Harry muttered, worried that his bitterness would seep into the soil he was currently turning over. 

“I was doubtful we’d be able to get the globe in sorts,” Parvati mused, as she shucked off her gloves. “But if Neville can befriend Pansy Parkinson, then I think there’s hope for us yet.” 

“Where are you off to?” Harry asked. 

She flicked her long braid over her shoulder. “Divination lessons. Good luck you two,” she smirked, and then she was gone, closing the door softly behind her. 

And because it was now just Harry and Neville, and Neville was humming to himself, and his face had filled out, and he was so kind, Harry felt he could ask what he needed to. 

“What about how mean Parkinson, well, Pansy was to you? How she tried to give me up to Voldemort?” 

Neville turned from where he was wrangling with the Tentacula situation that Parvati had left behind, somehow able to keep its arms at bay, as he looked at Harry quizzically. 

“I think it’s a bit like every other Slytherin, if you’re told from the moment you’re eleven that you were born to be evil, you’ll go along with it.” 

“I guess…”

“And weren’t you already off to die at that point?” 

Harry felt the prickling and uncomfortable sensation of realising he had been stubborn without meaning to be. That he had selectively started to forgive Malfoy, but not wanted to drop his ideas about the others. 

“Yeah, I was.” 

“I reckon she still owes you an apology,” Neville shrugged. “Since it was your life and all, but can you blame her for not wanting to die?” 

Harry sighed, wordlessly casting a severing charm as a toothy vine tried to latch onto his arm. 

“Anyway,” Neville continued. “She did apologise to me, and so did Draco.”

“Malfoy apologised to you?” Harry balked. 

“Sure, he needed my help getting moonseed for a potion he’s brewing. Did you know he wants to be potions master?” 

“I didn’t…” 

So Malfoy had been apologising to people, but had left out Harry. 

There was a commotion outside the greenhouse, as two figures came into blurred view. 

“Nev, I have to go, but I promise I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Alright, Harry.” 

Harry hurried over to his satchel and quickly pulled out his cloak, throwing it around himself just as Malfoy and Pansy opened the door. 

Neville eyed where Harry had been, but quickly cast a quieting charm over the Lion Flowers, and beckoned the Slytherins to his side to help him with the last of the Tentacula seeds. 

“Hello, Neville,” Malfoy said. “Where’s everyone else?” 

Neville waved a hand. “Stuff to do, you know.” 

Malfoy nodded, throwing down his satchel, which just missed Harry’s ankles. 

“Is all the repotting done?” Pansy asked, tying her bob into a tiny ponytail at the nape of her neck. At Neville’s nod, she visibly relaxed. “I just painted my nails, I don’t need dirt under them.” 

The normalcy of their interactions made Harry’s gut churn, and when Malfoy and Pansy were listening to Neville explain what they needed to do, Harry quietly slipped out of the greenhouse. He thought he noticed Malfoy turn just as the door closed, but maybe it was just a trick of the light, maybe it had been the green foliage of a plant moving instead.

Harry passed the Whomping Willow on his way back to the school, and he felt a chill creep up his spine. He could almost see the dark wisps of death curling off its swinging branches, it was connected to so many people who had passed. His father, Sirius, Lupin, Snape. 

He had managed to forgive Snape by the end of the war, could he not do the same for the other Slytherins? 

It was easier said than done, but the seed had been planted, and it would be watered by Professor Savage on a drab and wet afternoon in Defense class.

The eighth years had been paired off for dueling practice, spells and sparks ricocheting back and forth, rain pounding against the windows. They’d stilled as Professor Savage commanded their attention (really, without her, the eighth years camaraderie would have been done for).

“You call this dueling?” She barked, faces turning to the front of the room in surprise. “Everyone, return to your seats.”

She waved her wand and the previously empty space returned to being a fully furnished classroom, students dodging out of the way as desks and chairs re-appeared. 

“Firstly,” she said, tightening her silver ponytail. “Forget everything you’ve already learned about dueling. You’ve been told it’s a formal practice, one passed down through our culture, correct?” 

A scattering of confused heads nodded. 

“And what action do both you and your partner perform before you engage in combat?” 

“You bow, Professor,” Sue Li said, twirling a strand of black hair around her finger.

“Indeed. And what does that indicate?” 

Sue yanked at the hair. “Uhm, respect?” 

“Indeed, indeed. But do you think your opponent will stop for a moment so you can respect each other if you’re faced with a true enemy? Do you think a monster will play by the rules?” There was a hard glint in her eyes. A pale scar traveling down her right cheek, which Harry had never noticed before, flexed as she talked. “Dueling must be about desperation, about having the will to live stronger than your opponents. You must be fair, yes, but you must be ruthless.” 

Suddenly, she was pocketing her wand, and clapping her hands. “Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter. Would you care to demonstrate for us?” 

Malfoy and Harry shared a glance of disbelief, but they found themselves standing at the front of the room, facing each other, with their wands drawn. 

"On my countdown. One, two…"

Malfoy's wide grey eyes were reflecting the wild energy threatening to burst from Harry's fingertips. Just like the first time they had met, and almost every moment afterward, Harry had the urge to impress Malfoy, to best him in competition. He felt electricity crackling across his knuckles. 

"Three."

Harry’s expelliarmus burst from his wand, a shot of blue light that snapped and crackled as it connected with Malfoy’s hasty shield charm. Harry had to quickly throw up his own shield, as they parried each other in rapid succession. 

“Stupefy!”

“Confringo!” 

“Reducto!”

“Protego!”

“Depulso!” 

Harry stumbled backwards with the force of Malfoy’s spell against his shield. In that moment, Malfoy was able to take advantage of Harry’s unbalance, and cast a severing charm. It sliced through Harry’s shield, and with a gasp, he felt the sting of it across his cheek. His eyes narrowed. The duel took on an entirely new meaning. 

Harry dodged as another spell came lashing out at him and he was forced onto the defensive. He cast every spell he knew to repel the incoming hexes and curses, throwing up shields across the area in front of him, only for Malfoy to knock them down, shattering them into pieces of electric blue. 

“I expected better of you, Potter,” Malfoy said, panting. They stopped dueling for a moment, catching their breaths, and Harry watched his partner closely. It seemed his wand arm was tiring, his grip seemed to be loosening, and the sharpness of his wrist flicks had subdued. 

As Malfoy straightened up, Harry tried to draw on every ounce of energy. He sprang into a dueling stance, pointing out his wand.

“Expelliarmus!” 

Malfoy tried to put up a shield, but his grip on his wand wasn’t quite right, and Harry was able to break through it easily, knocking Malfoy’s wand out of his hand. It flew towards him, and Harry caught it, the slender Hawthorn handle fitting snugly in his fist.

Immediately, a thrill ran up his arm. He looked up, and Draco’s face was contorted into darkness, a storm worse than within the eighth year weather globe playing out on his face. 

“Malfoy, I…” Harry started, but he didn’t know what to say, not in front of their entire class. He walked forward and offered Malfoy a hand. He didn’t take it, just got to his feet and dusted off his trousers, holding out his hand for his wand. 

“Well done, Potter,” Malfoy sneered, before stalking back to his seat. 

“Yes, excellent work, both of you,” Professor Savage said, clapping her hands as if to clear the tension in the room.

Harry slid back into his seat, and Professor Savage’s voice droned in and out as she re-hashed their duel, highlighting all the mistakes made by both of them. Harry found he could barely focus; he couldn’t stop flexing his hand, reliving the rush of magic when he had held Malfoy’s wand. He kept glancing at Draco, who was staring intently at the front of the classroom, pointedly not looking at Harry. 

“The key to that duel was never letting your opponent usurp your upper hand. One must never relax in battle.” 

Was that Harry’s problem? Had he relaxed too much around Malfoy? 

“Now, see here how one casts a proper protego. Your attention to your wand and attunement to your magical core must be absolute, otherwise your shield will be too weak. I want everyone to close their eyes, and take deep breaths. For the last five minutes of class, you will attempt to center yourself and reconnect with your core.”

Harry closed his eyes reluctantly, and forced himself to keep them shut, even when he thought he felt Malfoy’s cold gaze piercing the side of his neck. 

“Alright, with me breathing in for four. One… two… three… four…. ”

Harry sunk into the darkness of mixed greys behind his eyelids, felt his lungs expand in his chest, pushing against his skin. 

“Now hold it for four, good, one… two… three… four….” 

At the peak of his inhale, he felt his heart beat through the stillness, and just beneath that, nestled between his lungs, was a tiny prick of light. 

“And empty it out for six. One….”

Slowly, Harry let himself deflate, collapsing in on himself. 

“Two… three….”

He stayed focused on that light, as if reaching a shadowed hand into his chest. 

“Four… five….”

He clutched at that little magical light, suddenly feeling a warmth spread throughout his entire body.

“Six… and now continue on your own.” 

Harry continued to breathe rhythmically, and as he focused on his core, it began to expand. Somehow, his mind never wandered. He brought the light out from within, it filled his chest with a dim glow, and then it began to strengthen, a brightness that radiated out of him. He felt the magic coursing through his veins and raising the hairs on his arms. 

He breathed in the stale air of the classroom, and breathed out magic. He could feel it crackling across his lips, an electric tingling on the sensitive skin of his face, an expansion and contraction of his magical core. 

His mind emptied, and there was nothing left but magic, pure and essential down to his very being, something no one had ever been able to take from him. 

A small crack appeared in his focus, a soft sound to his left.

“Harry,” someone whispered frantically. 

He tried to bat the voice away, to return to the weightless feeling of being bolstered by his own magic. 

“ _Harry_ , open your eyes.” 

With effort, Harry pulled himself up, unfurling his grasp on his magic, and let it deflate to the size it had been. The world returned to its proper axis, and Harry batted his eyelids open. 

The entire class was staring at him, people turned around in their seats with their eyes wide. At the front of the room, Professor Savage leaned on her desk, gazing at him with a frightfully knowing look. 

“That was very impressive, Mr. Potter.” 

With all eyes on him, Harry felt a nervous sweat begin to break out on the back of his neck, his pulse threatening to rise. “Er, I’m sorry Professor, but what exactly—”

“You want to know what you did?” she asked, her voice holding both grave importance, and an air of nonchalance. Harry nodded dumbly. “Well, Mr. Potter, for lack of a better term, you were glowing.” 

Harry looked between Hermione and Ron, who nodded awkwardly. 

With a glance at the clock, Professor Savage clapped again. “Well, class, you’re all dismissed. I want five-hundred words describing your experience connecting to your core, and how you think doing so could improve your casting.” Everyone stood up and began packing their bags. “Oh, and Mr. Potter, please come see me for a moment.” 

With a swish of her black robes suspiciously reminiscent of Snape, she exited through a side door and into her office. 

“What was that all about, mate?” Ron asked, scrunching up his freckled nose. 

“I have no idea,” Harry moaned as he swung his satchel over his shoulder. 

“Good luck, Harry,” Hermione said, smiling reassuringly. 

He headed towards Professor Savage’s office. He hesitated, and before he could knock, the door swung open. 

“Mr. Potter,” Savage said, as she finished organising some papers in her drawers. She motioned to the seat across from her, and Harry sat down in the hard wooden chair, placing his bag by his feet. Her office was quite barren, at least compared to Dumbledore’s old office. There was a Sneak-O-Scope on her desk, much like Mad Eye had always kept, and a few portraits hung on the walls of stern-looking faces in red Auror robes. One wall was covered by a bookshelf holding leather-bound tomes of black and maroon, and behind her was a large window, outside of which rain began to fall, droplets streaking the window. At the other wall stood a strange cabinet that sent spikes through Harry’s memory. 

“I’ll cut straight to the point,” she said gruffly. “How much have you thought about your career?” 

“Oh, erm,” Harry stuttered, floundering. “I guess, well, a little bit.” 

She raised a thin eyebrow, judgement clear on her face. “You are an eighth year, aren’t you?” 

“Obviously,” Harry replied, before he could stop himself, his face heating the moment the words left his mouth. Except, instead of being reprimanded, Professor Savage just chuckled, leaning back and putting her hands behind her head. 

“Minerva warned me you had sass.” 

“I—She did?” 

Professor Savage nodded. “No need to call me Sir, Professor,” she mimicked. “Apparently the staff room was talking about that for months.” 

Harry cracked a grin. “That one just came to me.” 

“Well, you must be a natural,” she said, gaze suddenly calculating. “Just as you seem to be a natural at Defense.” 

“Oh, right. Er, what exactly happened back there?” 

“Your magical core is quite powerful, Harry. You began to manifest it within physical space.” 

Harry understood, but he couldn’t seem to find it within him to reply, and stared at her blankly.

“Have you ever thought about being an Auror?” 

“I thought about being one, once.” 

“But it doesn’t appeal to you any longer?”

Harry thought back to the war, how he had spent his entire life fighting or running or trying to save someone. 

“Not exactly….” 

“Well, I hear you’re quite the Quidditch player. Youngest seeker of your time?” 

Harry thought about flying, how it made him feel real and alive, like a balloon of happiness was expanding in his chest, how catching the snitch felt like downing a vial of liquid luck. But the camaraderie of Gryffindor was part of what made it so enjoyable. Flying was wonderful, but if it were a job, it might be less so. Suddenly, it would be work, instead of something that let him feel free. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t really want to ruin it for myself.” 

“When I was posted around Hogwarts during the Second War, I heard that you started an army within the school, teaching your classmates how to perform Defense Against the Dark Arts, is that correct?” 

Harry nodded. 

“I may be hard on you all sometimes, but you and your classmates have more skill than most Junior Aurors I’ve trained. Have you ever considered becoming a professor?” 

Harry blinked. No, he couldn’t say he had. 

“It might suit you,” she said. Before Harry knew it, she was standing up, he was grabbing his bag, and she was ushering him to her office door. “Why don’t you think about it?” 

Harry nodded, and then he was standing outside the Defense classroom, unsure of what to do with himself. A group of third years walked by, whispering and giggling, and Harry felt too confused and raw to deal with any of it. After they turned the corner, he made sure the coast was clear, and pulled his invisibility cloak over his head. 

He needed to talk to Malfoy.

Too many things were changing. He felt the world had turned itself upside down. If he focused, he could still feel his magical core, nestled in his center. He had returned Malfoy’s wand to him at the Ministry, and it had been nearly a year, yet his wand had still felt so comfortable. For a split second, it had made Harry happy, to have the hawthorn wand back in his hands. 

Suddenly he stopped, two familiar voices drifting around the corner. He tried to tell himself that eavesdropping with the cloak was morally a very poor thing to do. Had he done it a thousand times on Malfoy? Yes. But that was Malfoy, it didn’t count.

Fuck it. Harry rounded the corner to where Pansy and Zabini—well, Blaise—were standing huddled next to a suit of armour, talking in low tones. 

He sidled up as close as he dared, and held his breath. 

“I don’t know, Pans,” Blaise said, sounding much too human for Harry’s comfort. “Did you see his face near the end?” 

She nodded morosely. “He looked terrified.” 

“Did he say anything to you before?” 

“Of course not,” she huffed. “He hasn’t said anything about the trial, or what happened after it all.” 

“I still can’t believe we found out from the fucking Patil twins, we didn’t even hear it from bloody Daphne, or _Draco_ ,” Blaise moaned. It was a horrible sound Harry immediately wanted to forget.

“Draco should have told us. He should have told us about Lucius at least.” 

Blaise shook his head. “I understand not wanting to talk about his father; maybe that would be too much at once. It doesn’t upset me to find out the occasional tidbit from the Prophet. But the donation, and now this? Come on now.”

“They paid for the whole common room,” Pansy hissed. “How do they still even have that money?” 

Blood rushed up into Harry’s head. He remembered the gossip from what felt like years ago, that it was the Malfoys who paid for the construction of the eighth year common room. Apparently it was true. 

“Potter got them off easy at the trial,” Blaise sneered. “Mind you, this is old news. The dramatic bitch could be off doing Salazar-knows-what after that stint in Defense.” 

“I’m worried about him, to be honest, Blaise. Like, actually worried.” 

Blaise put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. At that point, it felt too awkward to continue watching, so Harry hurried along. They obviously knew about as much as he did, but maybe the Slytherins were alright friends after all. 

DADA had been the eighth years’ last class of the day, and as Harry stepped into the common room, people were lazing about on sofas, reading or chatting. A fire had roared to life in the hearth as rain poured down outside, battering the large window panes and sending overcast shadows across the room. 

Harry put down the hood of his cloak, so he was a floating head by the fireplace, and Hermione jumped from her spot on the floor, where her notes were splayed out in front of her. Crookshanks was curled on the sofa behind her, and didn’t move an inch. 

“Oh, Harry, you frightened me.” 

“Sorry, Hermione. What are you studying for?” He asked, despite feeling like finding Malfoy was of the utmost importance right about now. 

She scribbled something on a scrap piece of parchment, before putting her quill down and looking up at him. “Arithmancy. We have a quiz coming up.” 

“Have you seen Malfoy?” 

Hermione raised her eyebrows, but otherwise didn’t look surprised. “I think I saw him heading outside after class. Why?” 

“I want to talk to him about our duel.” 

“You did well, Harry, I’m proud of you.” 

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry replied. “That does mean a lot.” 

“Are you and Malfoy…” she began, and Harry swallowed thickly. “Are you and Malfoy friends now?” she asked tentatively. 

“Of course not. God, why would you think that?” 

Hermione shrugged, shuffling some papers on the floor around. “Just the way you look at him, I suppose.” 

Harry tried to hold onto his heart, but it dropped out of his ribcage and onto the floor. “Look at him?” 

“Yes, I mean.” She waved a hand. “It’s a bit soft, isn’t it?” 

Harry blanched, unsure of how to respond. “I don’t—It’s not—I mean...” He wished he could throw up the hood of his cloak and disappear from this conversation, but Hermione was looking up at him expectantly. She was his best friend, she deserved this, right? If he could be open and honest with Ginny, he could do this with her. “I’m not sure how I feel about him, but it’s different now.” 

“Of course, Harry,” she said, nodding. 

“It’s not that we’re friends, he’s still terrible, it’s just—Well, the war is over, isn’t it? So, I mean…” he trailed off. How did you tell your best friend that you looked at a boy the wrong way and suddenly shattered into a million pieces? That looking at the delicate lines of Malfoy’s inner wrist patched up the glass inside him? That he had fallen, somehow, somewhere, and couldn’t figure out how to get back up? 

“It’s alright, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “I understand.” 

Harry gulped, nodded. “Well, I guess I’ll be going then.” 

“Alright, see you at dinner.” 

“Right.” 

After one last moment of hesitation, Harry put up the hood of his cloak, dissolving back into nothing. He stood there, being absent, being anything but Harry Potter, and Hermione stared at the spot where he stood, though she couldn’t see him.

“Ron and I love you, Harry,” she whispered, so quietly he almost wondered if he was imagining it. “No matter what.” 

He bent down slowly and pressed an invisible kiss to her forehead, her frizzy hair tickling his face through the cloak. When he pulled back, she reached a hand up to smooth down her hair, and he knew she had felt it. He slipped past her, and headed out of the common room. Rain was still pouring down outside, he could hear it all around the castle, but if Malfoy was out there, he would have to follow. He had never let something so miniscule as the weather get in the way of trailing after Malfoy before. 

He hurried down the steps, zigzagging around students with dripping robes. He briefly peered into the Great Hall, but Malfoy was nowhere to be found. 

The moment he stepped out of the castle, rain began to seep through the cloak, the fabric sticking to Harry's arms, slowly wetting his clothes as he walked towards the Great Lake. By the time he was standing at the shore, he was soaked through. He could have cast a rain-repelling charm. Malfoy probably had, and was walking around the grounds completely dry right this second. 

The rain was pouring down so heavily, it was hard to see, and Harry squinted as he made his way to the Quidditch pitch. 

Rain pooled into Harry's trainers, and as he squelched through the grass, the cold made a home out of his bones. 

It became even harder to see as droplets streamed over the invisibility cloak, sticking the fabric to his glasses, turning the world into hazy unrealness. Yet he was able to make out a figure walking towards the castle entrance and sitting down on the first step. 

As Harry approached, it became clear that this figure, with his blond hair stuck to his forehead and white shirt painfully translucent, was a drenched Draco Malfoy. 

He moved to the foot of the steps, so close that when he wiped off his glasses, he could see every curve and line of Malfoy's chest, and just visible against his wet shirt, the rigid slashes of scars. There were lines of silver criss crossing Malfoy's skin in places that Harry had touched indirectly.

 _I did that_ , a voice inside him said. _I did that_. And he hated himself for it all over again. He wanted to let himself go, let Not-Harry take over, so he could forget the guilt. 

The sound of the rain attempted to drown out everything else, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from those scars, and as the water splashed up around his ankles, he realised that Malfoy seemed to be staring directly at him. Harry took a step forward, and Malfoy's eyes shifted minutely to follow him, despite Harry's invisibility. 

“Hello, Potter.” 

Harry stood there frozen, the cold rain shooting into his veins, his bones, his very being, banishing Not-Harry into the ground. He was no longer nothing; he was every drop of rain, melting down into the grass at the sight of Malfoy soaking wet. 

“Yes, I know you’re there,” Malfoy said. He propped his elbows on his knees, and he looked tired, hollowed out on the inside. “I also know that you’ve been following me around like some fucked up invisible stalker. I’ve known for quite some time. Do you fancy me blind and deaf, Potter? I’ve been letting you get away with it, because apparently I’m just as fucked as you are. We make quite a team, don’t we?” 

Malfoy laughed, as cold as the rain, but sharper, and maybe it was the fact that Malfoy couldn't see Harry's face that bolstered him, because he continued, speaking more to Harry then than he ever had before. “I prayed that you went straight into the Aurors before we came back to Hogwarts, that I would be able to get through all this with my head down. I suppose you never liked to make things easy for me." Malfoy tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Did you think I would be up to something? Following me around so you could keep an eye on me? Well, all we have to show for this obsession is that my wand likes you better than me, for some fucking reason." 

Harry waited under the invisibility cloak, seething, melting. He wished Malfoy would do something, instead of talking, wished he would rip the cloak off, so that at least Harry could be angry about something. Right then, Malfoy seemed so bloody _sad_ that Harry couldn't go back to hating him, not even a little bit. 

“I don’t know why I thought this year would be any different, especially when I have this.” 

And then he pulled back his sleeve, as best he could with the wet and clinging fabric, and the dark mark was staring up into the grey sky, droplets of rain rolling off of the ink as if the skull on Malfoy’s arm was crying. And then Harry wondered: _was_ Malfoy crying? Because he seemed to be shaking, and maybe he was waiting for Harry to move, even though Malfoy was the one who had confronted him. But he looked so dejected and lost. He’d looked that way since they came back, Harry realised, like the world was trying to eat him alive. With this realisation came the thought that it seemed difficult, being Draco Malfoy, and in that same breath, he was pulling off the invisibility cloak. 

“So you knew I was following you?” 

“I did,” he said, voice cracking. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Malfoy shrugged, and Harry did the only thing he could think of. He sat down next to the git, and felt the cold of the steps seep into his bones, aching all the way through. 

“On the train?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy nodded, and a shiver ran through Harry with the idea that Malfoy had known all this time. 

"After potions?"

"I wasn't positive, but you just confirmed it."

"What about the pitch?"

"I heard you sit down." 

"What about in the Astronomy tower?" 

Malfoy nodded, and Harry buried his face in his hands, the back of his neck on fire. 

"And I could see the outline of you in the rain."

"Oh fuck, that makes so much sense," Harry moaned. 

Malfoy seemed to finally notice his sleeve was still rolled up and pushed it down hastily. "Why have you been doing it?" 

"I don't know. Everyone is always looking at me, or talking about me, or something." Harry couldn't believe he was telling this to Malfoy, this thing he had never said out loud, but now that he was talking he didn't know how to stop. "Sometimes it feels so hard to breathe, like the pressure of what everyone expects is sitting on my chest, or…." Harry trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know."

Malfoy let out a slow breath. "I understand." 

Harry sat up a bit straighter, turning to face Malfoy. This close, openly staring at each other, both soaked, it felt terrifyingly intimate. 

"The son of a Death Eater, a Death Eater in my own right—people are always wary around me. You know, crowds will part as I walk through, because no one wants to be near me."

"I'm near you," Harry said dumbly.

"Yes, I see that." Malfoy smirked. 

"After that moment on the train, I just…." Harry wanted to look anywhere but Malfoy as he said this, and yet he couldn't look away from those glittering grey eyes, which seemed to be prying out every secret Harry had ever held. "I couldn't stop looking for you."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow nonchalantly, but Harry could see his fingers tighten, gripping the stone. Harry brought his own hands down to the cold steps, which cut into his fingers painfully.

"It was like sixth year all over again," Harry bemoaned, letting that admission hang heavy around them. 

The rain was finally beginning to let up, the setting sun sending light scattering across fresh puddles and rippling across the grounds. 

"Hopefully not, since you thought I was up to something." 

Harry blinked against the sudden brightness as the sun shimmered across the Great Lake in the distance. "No, not this time." Harry let his hand shift an inch towards Malfoy's. "And… I'm sorry," he bit out, something inside him rearing at the idea of apologising to Malfoy, but he tamped it down. "I'm sorry, for erm, in the bathroom." 

Malfoy nodded curtly. "Well if we're giving apologies, I suppose I'm sorry for, you know, most of it." 

"You suppose?" 

“I—No, I am sorry. For all of it. I was… a real twat. I was terrible, more than terrible. I hated myself, and I hated everyone around me, and it’s not an excuse, but I see that now. How terrible I was, I mean. I made mistakes, and I want to make up for them. And I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

Harry moved his hand another quarter inch. He wasn’t sure how to respond to something so sincere. "You really were a twat."

"You're not supposed to agree with me, you git."

“Then what would be the point of your apology?” 

“You’re right,” Draco sighed. “Prick.”

"Of course I am." Harry crept his hand even closer. There were only a few centimetres separating them now. “Dickhead.” 

"I hate you."

"Well, I don’t," Harry said, and he realised that he meant it. He could sense Malfoy's hand next to his own, and didn’t dare to move any closer. Could Malfoy feel it too?

The sun had almost set, and a chill carried on the evening air. "What are we going to do now?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shrugged. "Well, we’re not enemies." 

"No," Malfoy agreed. “But we’re not friends.

Harry nodded. “Not friends, but not enemies.” 

"Even though I have the dark mark?"

Harry couldn't forget the images of green skulls bursting across the night sky, the floating masks in the graveyard, the dark mark slithering across people's wrists when Voldemort called for them. But he also saw Malfoy's blotchy and terrified face as he showed the mark to Dumbledore, and right now, sitting on the steps, he saw that Malfoy's knuckles were white. 

"You made mistakes, you did bad things, but that… doesn't mean you're a bad person." 

"Saviour Potter strikes again—"

Harry felt a tiny flare of anger. "Oh fuck off, Malfoy, I'm not trying to be all holier-than-thou. I'm serious. Snape had the dark mark, but he took actions to prove himself more than that."

Malfoy sighed, turning away, and Harry pulled his hand back to cross his arms. 

"We should go inside," Harry said, standing up. 

"Wait, Potter," Malfoy said, grabbing the edge of Harry's robes. He stood up awkwardly, dropping his arms to his sides. "If we're not friends or enemies, then what are we?"

"I think…" Harry started, steeling himself. "I think we’re nothing on the way to being something."

"What does that even mean, you idiot?"

"It means I don't want to use the invisibility cloak anymore, and I don't want you to avoid everyone anymore."

"The school year is almost over. Isn't it a bit late for that?"

Harry shook his head. "It's only spring, Malfoy." 

"Whatever, Potter. I'm cold and wet, I'm going inside." 

"Cast a drying charm, or aren't you a pureblood wizard?" 

Malfoy rolled his eyes, pulling out his wand. He rolled it in his palm. "Why did my wand react to you?" 

"I don't know, Malfoy." 

"It felt different after you gave it back to me."

"Do you think it's because of… us?"

Malfoy scowled, and Harry steeled himself, holding out his hand. Malfoy regarded him with surprised disdain. Harry imagined they were both aware of the parallels, and for a moment, he worried Malfoy would just turn around and walk right into the castle. Say fuck all to apologies, to being a better person. Harry had rejected him once, why give him a second chance? But, tentatively, Malfoy clasped Harry's hand. Malfoy—no, he was Draco now, maybe had been for some time—Draco’s grip was firm but his skin soft. And just like when Harry had held on to Draco’s wand, he felt a rush of energy, of comfort, the feeling of coming home, and judging by Draco's widening eyes, he felt it too. 

"What does that mean?" Draco whispered with a tremor in his voice, as they let their hands drop to their sides.

“I’m not sure,” Harry replied honestly. “That there’s more to all this than we thought?”

Malfoy smirked. “I guess we’ve always kind of gravitated towards each other.” 

Harry tried to quell the blush that bloomed on his cheeks, but when Malfoy’s eyes glinted and the tips of his ears turned pink, he knew he had failed. Harry turned, and Draco finally cast those drying charms. 

Silently, they headed back into the castle. Even though people whispered as they walked through the Entrance Hall, Harry felt better knowing it wasn't just about him anymore, but him and Draco, that they were sharing this burden. There were still lots of things to talk about between the two of them, but they had made a tentative start. Harry wasn't sure what was going to happen next, and as they made their way to the eighth year table in the Great Hall, he wasn't even sure what he wanted to do after all this. Stay on at Hogwarts? Or was there something better out there waiting for him? 

Draco nodded at him, before heading to the opposite end of the table to sit with Blaise and Pansy. Harry navigated to the opposite end to slide in next to Hermione. 

"Alright, Harry?" she asked. 

"Yeah, I think so." 

"Did he curse you? Did he ask for a rematch?" Ron asked around a mouthful of food. Hermione smiled ruefully.

"No, we just talked." 

Ron choked in alarm, and Dean thumped him on the back. 

Harry realised he hadn't been at all scared of Draco turning on him. Something about having seen him with his guard down so many times had sunk into Harry. With the first broken piece slotted back into place, in the reflection of the glass, Harry could see a future where maybe he was happy, where maybe the tight grasp the past had on him had loosened, and maybe Draco would be happy too. One day, Harry would ask Draco if he had broken, and how it had felt, and whether Harry had caused it, but not yet. 

That night, Harry pulled back the covers and tiptoed out to the mezzanine. White clouds floated within the weather globe, and if Harry tilted his head to the side, he thought he could see sunshine attempting to claw its way out. 

Quietly, he made his way through the common room, and up the twisting stairs to the Astronomy Tower. 

“No invisibility cloak tonight?” Draco asked, when Harry made it to the top. He was leaning casually against the banister, his silk pyjama shirt riding up, revealing the perfect pale curve of his right hip. Harry went to stand beside him, letting his hands fall over the railing, as he peered up at the night sky, and tried to remember the constellations that Professor Altair had pointed out to them so many times. 

“I don’t think I need it between us, anymore,” Harry said, and Draco turned so he too was looking out at the sky. Draco let a hand rest near Harry’s, and then slowly, let their pinkies touch loosely. 

“Why are you here, Potter?”

Harry inclined his head. “Because I’m an idiot. Now it was his turn to smirk. “And for some reason, I can’t leave you alone.”

Malfoy laughed, warmer than Harry had ever heard it, and under the dimly glowing eyes of the Watch Owl, and the beautiful cover of night, Draco hooked their pinkies together. 

-x-

**Nine Years Later - Professor Potter’s Office**

Harry rifled through the bottom drawer of his desk, pushing aside used parchment and an old Gryffindor tie. He was looking for a note with someone’s address that he was sure was somewhere around here, but all he was finding was memorabilia of a time long passed. From under all the useful usefulness, he pulled out a shimmering piece of fabric. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn the invisibility cloak. 

Harry heard the door to his office open, and he straightened up to the sight of Draco Malfoy, swishing black robes and all. 

“What do you want?” Harry asked wryly. 

“Are you busy?” Draco asked, brows furrowing. “A witch is here to do repairs on the globe.” 

“Oh, right,” Harry sighed, looking up to the domed ceiling of his tower office. The weather globe from their eighth year common room was suspended above. Normally, it was completely filled with sunshine and the occasional scattering of rainbows, but the surface had begun to crack somehow, bright light leaking out and burning anything it touched. “I am, yeah,” he said, now looking down at the gauzy fabric still clutched in his hands. 

“What’s that?” Draco asked before Harry could shove it back in its drawer. 

“My invisibility cloak.” 

Draco hummed in recognition as Harry returned it to its home. 

“Not going to start following me around again, are you?” 

Harry smiled. “I don’t need an invisibility cloak to do that.” 

Draco came forward, brushing a kiss across Harry’s lips, strands of blond hair tickling Harry’s forehead, right as someone else knocked on Harry’s door, coughing. Draco pulled back hastily.

Standing in the doorway was a witch in burnt orange robes. Clouds seemed to be floating around the hem, golden embroidery pushed smoothly along the fabric by a magical wind. Box braids were piled into a bun on her head, the dark skin of her cheeks dusted with a fine, sparkly powder. She had a broom in one hand and a beech wood wand in the other, and her gaze travelled up to the ceiling, eyes glittering. 

“Dr. Nia Keita,” she said, inclining her head. “Headmistress McGonagall owled me about my work up there.” 

“Right,” Harry replied, shaking the thoughts of Draco that had crowded into his head. “Right, it’s been… It’s been cracking, and burning things….” 

Nia hummed, moving to stand beneath it, the ground around her scorched where Harry hadn’t bothered casting a Reparo. She was the type of witch whose presence filled the room, and today was no exception. Harry could feel her magic on the air, subtle yet powerful, curls of lustrous energy. 

She swung a leg over her broom. “I’ll have to fly up and take a closer look.” She rose in a flurry of sunshine and glitter, accents on her robes catching the magical light. 

Harry and Draco watched from below as she circled the glass surface, occasionally waving her wand, glowing charts springing up with every incantation.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Someone called nervously from the doorway. Harry and Draco turned, to see a student anxiously ringing their hands. “There’s been an incident with a love potion, Mme. Pomfrey sent me to get you. Something about Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.” 

Draco cursed under his breath, turning to Harry.

“I’ll have to go take care of that,” he huffed, placing a chaste kiss to Harry’s cheek. With a goofy smile on his face, Harry’s gaze followed Draco out the door, until he disappeared with a swish of his robes.

Harry looked back to the globe, where Nia was easing her broom to the ground. There were so many things he wanted to ask her. 

“It seems I made a bit of a miscalculation back when I first fashioned the globe,” she conceded, idly flipping her broom stand. “My containment charms weren’t designed quite right.” 

“How so?” Harry asked.

“Well, the charms were on the weather, but it looks like over time, it began to manifest certain emotions that people felt strongly enough about. Since my charms were meant for weather alone, it looks like the emotions are trying to break free.” 

“I see,” Harry responded, although he didn’t really. “Can you fix it?” The globe had been in his life for over nine years, and he wasn’t ready to give it up. 

“Might take a bit of finagling, if you don’t mind me being here again tomorrow.” 

“It’s no worry at all,” Harry was saying, and she was nodding, and it seemed like she was about to leave. There was still tomorrow, but it felt so important, and he had classes to teach, and he needed to know.

“When did you first come up with the idea for this?” 

“Well, I wrote my thesis about atmospheric charms some time around then. I started doing commissions.” 

“Did you always want to do this? Work with atmospheric charms, I mean?” 

She smiled lopsidedly. “Not really. If you can believe it, I wanted to be a healer at one point. I switched majors after my first year at Avirtielm.” 

Was this the answer he had been searching for? That no one ever knew what they wanted to do, that it just took some experimentation and time? 

“It becomes addictive, really,” she added. “You never touched the globe, did you?” 

“No, should I have?” 

She inclined her head at Harry’s own Firebolt 2004, which he called vintage and his students called archaic, which he always kept on hand in his office. He was a professor, he could do whatever he liked, and that meant keeping his broom free of the confinement of the broom shed. 

They flew up to the ceiling and circled the globe a few times. She had spelled the glass back to smoothness, and sunshine flickered happily within. With a wave, the spinning rings stilled, and Harry was able to inch forward on his broom, carefully reaching out a hand. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Not at all. Normally no one would ever get a chance to do this, since I would never be around to help them, or because it wouldn’t be their place. But the globe has been feeding off your emotions for years now. I think you have the right to experience it.” 

_Experience what_? Harry thought, and then his fingertips brushed the warm surface, and it was a feeling he had almost forgotten. Everything within him shattered and it felt alarmingly, wonderfully beautiful. 

He was falling and falling and falling in love, he was opening up tiny parts of himself he never had, to Malfoy, to Draco, and the wanting of it all, Merlin, the wanting. Draco had been wanting so desperately, for so long, that Harry broke all over again. Harry knew already that Draco had liked him before eighth year, but now he felt it. 

To be so in love you couldn’t fit all inside you, to have to carry it around while trying not to give anything away. But now he didn’t have to. Now he could throw the loveable, scarred, and shattered bits all over the floor. 

He felt the sun expand within him, a warmth that had become so familiar, and knew that he had made the right decision, falling in love with Draco. That he had been making the right decisions all along. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t what he’d expected. It was better than that, it was better than what he had always wanted. It was his person, his someone, that understood him, and knew him, and who he understood in return. It was home, it was being seen, and wasn’t that all he had ever wanted? For someone to tear off the invisibility cloak, look him in the eyes, and say, ‘I see you, Harry Potter, and I’m never letting you go.’

  
  


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